The Poison Crown
by Sanaryelle
Summary: The Kingdom is in chaos as it recovers from war. But rebellion, and whispers of the King's madness, may cause more destruction than a foreign threat ever could.
1. The New Guard

_A/N: Hello all! After the exhausting experience of writing _Five Great Charters_, I am finally posting another multi-chapter story. This one will be similar to _FGC_ in that it will have an ensemble cast from all three Bloodlines, as well as non-Bloodline characters. Unlike _FGC_, it will be a continuous tale. And hopefully a bit shorter. The story will be told from the POV of characters on both sides of a rebellion against the King. Enjoy!_

**The New Guard**

_A family sat around the table in the back room of an inn, having dinner in silence. The mother glanced at a young teenaged girl. "Eat up, Jyss."_

_The girl poked at her food with a fork. "I don't like it."_

_Her father sighed. "Jyss, we've been over this before. The merchant ships haven't come to Belisaere since the barbarians took over. There isn't a lot of choice in the market anymore."_

"_Then the Army should take Belisaere back."_

_Her two parents exchanged knowing glances. "The Royal Army was defeated," her father said gently. "The King was killed. They say only one of his children survived, and he is at sea with the remainder of the Royal Guard."_

"_Well, _he_ should take Belisaere back," the girl grumbled._

_Her mother put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Someday he will," she soothed. "There was a time when the Royal Guard could have driven these barbarians away, but not today. For now, we keep our heads down and get by however we can. Don't worry, Jyss. This invasion will soon be over, and a King will sit on the throne once more."_

Jyss stood outside the door and nervously smoothed down her new Corporal's uniform. Fresh out of training, she had never even seen the inner corridors of the palace before. Personally, Jyss found the high vaulted ceilings and ornate decoration rather intimidating, but she was determined to make a good impression on her very first day as an officer of the Royal Guard. It was a precarious time to become a Royal Guard, with the rebellion and the looming threat of civil war, but she had trained long and hard for this position and was ready for anything.

The door banged open and a guard with the badge of a Lieutenant strode out, followed by the nervous-looking secretary who had taken Jyss' introductory papers. The officer raked her gaze over Jyss before turning to the secretary. "Is this her?" At his timid nod, the Lieutenant turned on her heel and set off down the corridor at a quick march, motioning for Jyss to follow. The young guardswoman hurried to catch up, falling into step at the senior officer's side.

"I am Lieutenant Sonchia," said the woman briskly. "Welcome to the Royal Guard, Corporal." Jyss opened her mouth to thank the other woman, but was quickly interrupted: "Are you aware of the particular duty to which you have been assigned?"

"No, Lieutenant," said Jyss, slightly stunned by the abrupt manner of her reception.

"It says on your record that you were top of your platoon in Magic and Swordsmanship," said the officer, turning suddenly into a corridor. Jyss nearly slid on the marble floor in her attempts to keep up. "You are twenty-two, correct? Well young or old, we have need of a good Charter Mage to serve the King as a personal aide."

Jyss stared at the older woman, wondering if she had heard correctly. "A – a personal aide, Lieutenant?" she repeated.

The officer glanced at her irritably as they marched down the hall. "That is what I said, Corporal. You are to attend the King, bring him his meals, and run errands. You will be on call at all hours of the day and night. Do you find these arrangements objectionable?"

"No, Lieutenant, I –" Jyss had been caught off-guard by the question. She was acutely aware of the enormous honour being bestowed upon her, but the assignment puzzled her. "I just wonder," she said a bit timidly, "why these duties cannot be carried out by the palace servants."

"With the rebels at large, the King is in a great deal of danger," said Lieutenant Sonchia. "He insists on being surrounded by a diamond of protection at all times. It is required that his personal aide have the ability to cast one upon command, and to break one should the need arise. As for the particular need for a trained Royal Guard to perform these duties…" The Lieutenant glanced at Jyss. "The King can be quite unpredictable. It is in the best interests of all that we choose someone who can defend herself."

A strange feeling settled in Jyss' gut that had little to do with ordinary first-day nerves. "If I may ask, Lieutenant," she said hesitantly, "what happened to the Corporal who previously held this post?"

A muscle near Sonchia's eye twitched as they stopped and waited for two guards to open a set of Charter-spelled double doors. "The King was displeased with him," she said finally. The Lieutenant turned to meet Jyss' gaze full-on. "I will not lie to you, Corporal. The King happens to be the most powerful Charter Mage in the palace. He can be… intimidating."

Jyss gulped, and reluctantly followed the Lieutenant through the doors. She found herself in a vast antechamber, and Sonchia told her to wait patiently while still more guards removed a series of protective spells from a second set of double doors.

Jyss wondered what it was that she had gotten into. She had heard the rumours, of course, of the King's madness. Everybody had heard them, though nobody openly talked about that sort of thing. Over the past two years the King had become a recluse and removed himself from the public eye, so the rumours remained unconfirmed. Nevertheless, speculation abounded as to the cause of his supposed madness, and as Jyss' parents had owned an inn, she had heard them all. Some were especially absurd, like the theory that spies from Ancelstierre had put poison on the King's crown that infected his brain when he put it on his head. Jyss did not truly care how it had happened, but there was one thing that she absolutely had to know. "Lieutenant," she asked in an undertone, "is it true that last year the King killed his wife?"

The older woman turned sharply to glare at her, and Jyss took an involuntary step back. The Lieutenant sighed and shook her head, looking at Jyss with something close to sympathy. "Do not listen to rumour," she said in a more gentle tone of voice than Jyss had yet heard from her. "The King had his wife put to death for adultery. That is the truth."

The doors finally opened, and Jyss could feel soft gusts of magic as the protective spells fell away. The Lieutenant gave her a slight nod. "Good luck." Before Jyss could respond, Lieutenant Sonchia strode forward, leading the way into the room. "King Rothain," she announced in a ringing voice. "I present Corporal Jyss of the Royal Guard."

The first thing that Jyss noticed was a tall elderly man wearing judicial robes of black and white. He was standing very straight, gazing out of a large window that leaked sunlight between the pillars. He had a stern, shrewd face, and his gnarled hands were clasped behind his back.

The second thing that Jyss noticed was the throne at the end of the pillar-lined hall. As promised, a powerful diamond of protection gleamed around it. And in that throne sat a figure clad in red and gold. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she followed Lieutenant Sonchia over the marble floor, and she could barely breathe as she dropped down onto one knee. When she finally got the courage to glance up, Jyss realized that the King was not even looking at her. This was mildly encouraging, and the young Corporal got her first real look at King Rothain.

He was younger than she had expected, and telling by how his knees jutted out from the throne he would be very tall when standing. Jyss also thought that he looked quite ill. He was so pale that she could faintly see the veins under his skin. His face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and his curly brown hair stuck to his forehead. But what disturbed Jyss most of all were his eyes. They looked over-bright and feverish, and had the odd habit of flicking slightly to one side or the other as if tracking the progress of an invisible fly. Jyss suppressed a shiver. So one of the rumours was true. Poison crown or not, there was no denying the fact that the King was mad.

Slow footsteps rapped on the marble floor, and the old man came into view, standing at the side of the throne just outside of the diamond of protection. "Welcome, Corporal Jyss," he said quietly. Everything about him seemed quiet. "I am Chancellor Oraz, regent to the King." With his black and white robes, Jyss thought that he resembled an old magpie – but a dignified one nonetheless.

Chancellor Oraz turned to the King, who was still watching the progress of the invisible fly. "Your Majesty," he said, "your new personal guard has arrived."

The King's eyes suddenly ceased their roving and focussed on Jyss, and she wished that they hadn't. There was something terribly ruthless about the disinterest in those glassy eyes. It struck her that a man like this was capable of killing without remorse. She did not dare look away.

"She has only just finished her training," said Oraz. "She requires your protection."

King Rothain showed no sign that he had heard the Chancellor, and Jyss felt her fists clenching as she struggled to hold the madman's gaze. Then without any warning at all, the diamond of protection dissolved. The King leaned forward in his throne and stretched out a pale hand, fingers splayed. Jyss glanced uncertainly at Lieutenant Sonchia, who gave her a reassuring nod. Jyss was a skilled Mage, and she could feel incredible force gathering within the King, focussing in his palm, getting ready to unleash upon her – what? She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Suddenly, pure golden warmth seemed to envelop Jyss from head to toe. She relaxed, and very faintly she could hear a sweet musical sound – a tinkling echo like chimes? Soon it was over and Jyss opened her eyes, amazed that she was still alive. She gazed up at Lieutenant Sonchia, who looked quite relieved, before turning to Oraz. The Chancellor smiled at her kindly. "You now carry the King's protection, Corporal" he said, and Jyss could not help smiling back.

She then looked at King Rothain, who was staring at a point on the ground several feet to the left of her. She bowed her head, and murmured, "I thank you, Highness." She did not expect a reaction, and she did not receive one. Jyss got to her feet. At the signal of the Lieutenant she took up her position at the side of the King's throne.

Everything seemed to have gone as well as could be expected. She could only hope that her first posting would not kill her.

_A/N: Poor Jyss; I wouldn't want to be in her shoes. If events seem a bit unclear now, a fuller explanation will come along later. I believe chapter 5 will lay everything out. Meanwhile reviews, as always, are welcome._


	2. Passed Over

_A/N: Concerning the structure of this story, the italicized section is a segment from the past of the character featured in each chapter. Thank you everyone for the reviews; I plan to update every week, and I give you full permission to bug me if I don't!_

**Passed Over**

"_Corporal!"_

_Ghalio turned and stood to attention when he saw his superior officer. Lieutenant Vansen waved his hand. "At ease. Listen carefully. You are to gather the men – all of them – and take them to the South Gate."_

_Ghalio blinked in confusion. "Sir, what –?"_

"_Just do it, Corporal!"_

_He snapped to attention again. "Yes, sir."_

_Vansen looked him over, and his hard expression softened. "Here's what happened," he said in a low voice. "Captain Betrys finally stood up to the King. He's liable to declare her a traitor, but she's beating him to the punch. We're moving out. Two full platoons of the Royal Guard."_

_Ghalio stared at his Lieutenant blankly. "We're starting a rebellion?"_

_Vansen merely clapped him on the shoulder before walking away. Ghalio stared after him. Then swore under his breath._

Two hundred miles to the south and west of the palace lay the Rebel encampment. It was situated on the top of a hill, nestled in the woods where the Yanyl River met the Ratterlin. The camp was protected by high walls of sharpened wooden poles, and afforded the lookouts a view that stretched even to the green rolling fields beyond the trees. Scouting parties scoured the surrounding woods, and still more Rebels held the bridges over the two rivers. For five months the Royal Guards had been unable to assault the encampment, and it was likely to remain that way. If there was to be any real attack, it would come from the rebels.

The protective enclosure had been built to house the seventy men and women who made up the Rebel force. Although earlier that year every one of them had been wearing the red and gold of the Royal Guard, now they were clad in whatever clothes they had traded for or bought from farmers and woodsmen in the surrounding area. Captain Betrys had required that they retain their old ranks and discipline, but they renounced the symbols of the Kingdom.

At present, several people were passing to and fro before the Captain's tent, pretending to be occupied with various tasks while in fact waiting for Captain Betrys to emerge. A fair few were bending over the guttering cooking-fires. Others were seeing to their horses. Still more were engaged in mundane activities such as mending clothes and sharpening weapons, all of which just had to be done near the Captain's tent. But one man was not even bothering to feign an appearance of activity. He was a tall individual, black of hair and eye. Though young, he had managed to grow a respectable beard during his exile, one of those jaw-lining beards that remained dark even when shaved close. He sat cross-legged by a fire pit, poking it absently, his eyes flicking up every so often as he awaited the Captain's appearance.

Ghalio had been a Corporal of the Royal Guard the day Captain Betrys had famously denounced the King's actions. Before being declared a traitor she had left Belisaere with her sons and their platoons – a full third of the Guard force. If Ghalio was completely honest, he had to admit that he would have preferred to stay in Belisaere. But it is the duty of a Corporal to follow his Lieutenant, and his Lieutenant happened to be the son of Captain Betrys. It was not a Corporal's place to question orders.

"Hello, Ghalio." He glanced up to see his cousin, who squatted down beside him to warm his hands by the fire. "I just got back. Vadne said there was something going on here. The Captain hasn't come out yet?"

Ghalio shook his head. "I imagine it won't be long now, Ciprian. The vultures are getting restless." He gave the loitering men and women a significant look.

His cousin smiled, and gestured at the Captain's tent. "What do you think is going on in there?"

"The Captain is giving her son a good dressing-down, I imagine." Ghalio threw his stick into the fire. The shower of sparks caused a few nearby soldiers to jump. Everyone was wound tight in anticipation, it seemed. "I'm lucky not to have been a part of that whole reckless affair," Ghalio admitted. "It was stupid, that's what it was."

Ciprian laughed. "You're starting to sound like a Loyalist!" He glanced at the other man and lowered his voice. "What exactly happened, cousin?"

Ghalio stretched, cracking his spine. The sound had always unnerved his cousin so he did it at every possible opportunity. "From what I can gather, my fearless Lieutenant led an unauthorized attack on a group of Royal Guards who had strayed too close to the Ratterlin. He was caught, and they cut off his hands before sending him back to the Captain as a warning. They didn't bother sending the hands."

His cousin winced and let out a low whistle. "This conflict is getting uglier day by day. Any moment it could break out into open war, Charter forbid." He peered up at the darkening sky. "Lieutenant Vansen will probably be demoted for that, poor fellow."

"Probably," Ghalio allowed. "He can't be of much use in the field without his hands."

"Then you will become a Lieutenant," said Ciprian warmly, slapping Ghalio on the back. "You're Vansen's best Corporal, after all."

Ghalio smiled thinly. "Any Corporal has a chance at that promotion, yourself included." Despite his words, he was confident that he would finally gain the rank to which he had long aspired. With only two Lieutenant positions available in the encampment, and Rael, Vadne, and Hallam greener than any officers he'd ever seen, his only actual rival for the post was Ciprian. And Ghalio was a few years older than his cousin, and Vansen's Corporal whereas Ciprian was placed under Lieutenant Anthone. He would finally be given his due.

"No progress on either side?" Ghalio asked. It was important to keep up with current events.

Ciprian spread his hands helplessly. "None. The King won't be summoning up the Guard to march on us anytime soon, and we're entrenched here until Charter knows when. Just attacks and skirmishes in the Middle Lands. Tensions are building, but no deaths as of yet."

"Any word from the Clayr?"

"Nothing."

A small smile twisted Ghalio's face. "And what about our dear uncle?"

Ciprian grinned and shook his head. "The Abhorsen isn't at court. Still out in the wilds battling nasty necromancers and Free Magic beasties, for all I know."

"How delightful."

The people around the tent started to mutter nervously. They went abruptly silent when the flap was thrown back. Ghalio and Ciprian got to their feet to watch. The Captain emerged stone-faced, and she was followed out of the tent by her son. Ghalio noted the bandaged stumps where his Lieutenant's hands had once been. Vansen looked humiliated and resentful, and Ghalio knew what was coming next. His heart was pounding, and he struggled to appear composed. This was it.

"Hear me," Captain Betrys thundered, and all of the soldiers snapped unconsciously to attention. Her sharp eyes ran over the assembled company. "Lieutenant Vansen attacked a party of Royal Guards without my consent. The loss of his hands is a fitting punishment, and will not be avenged." She turned to her son. "I hereby strip you of your rank, Vansen." She removed the badge from his arm, and Ghalio watched his old Lieutenant lower his head in shame. He did not feel too sorry for the man. Vansen had made a foolish mistake, one that Ghalio would never repeat once he was in command of the platoon.

As Vansen turned to walk off to his tent he was intercepted by Lieutenant Anthone, his older brother. Vansen ignored the officer's comforting hand and shouldered him angrily out of the way before stalking off. Ghalio turned back to the Captain, straightened his shoulders, and waited for the inevitable announcement.

"As you know," said Betrys, pretending not to notice the interaction between her sons, "with Vansen's demotion comes a vacant post. I have decided to fill it by appointing Corporal Ciprian as my new Lieutenant."

Amidst the applause and cheers of the watching soldiers, Ghalio was barely able to hide his bitter disappointment. He watched with growing envy as his cousin walked up to the Captain to accept his badge of command, and furiously wondered why he had been passed over. The urge to be revenged and to obtain what was rightfully his burned in his chest. Jealousy had led him to commit dangerous transgressions in the past, but this situation was different. Ciprian was no fool. More than that he was his cousin, and possessed all of the advantages their Bloodline had to offer. And Ghalio was in the middle of a rebel camp, declared a traitor by the Kingdom, one of only a few officers and thus the object of constant scrutiny. If he did anything, he would need to tread carefully.

Ghalio remained long enough to congratulate Ciprian before slipping away. On silent feet he walked to his own tent near the edge of the encampment. He shared it with Corporal Hallam. But Ciprian was a Lieutenant now, and would be given his own tent.

"All right, Corporal?"

Ghalio's hand whipped to his knife. Only when he recognized the thin figure standing in the shadow of the palisade wall did he relax. "Good evening, Lancepesade Sino," he greeted his subordinate, relaxing. Sino was his right-hand man, and faithful to him. Like everybody else in the encampment, Sino knew that it was dangerous to sneak up on Corporal Ghalio unannounced. The soldiers still talked about what he'd done to the rookie who had tapped him on the shoulder. Idiot. It was all due to reflexes which Ghalio had been forced to adopt during the barbarian invasion. Back then it had been kill or be killed, always watch your back, and never trust anybody. Hard lessons like that are difficult to forget.

Sino took a step closer to him, his expression concerned in the light of the Charter mark wavering on his wrinkled palm. "I'm sorry about the promotion, sir," said the other man.

"No matter," said Ghalio, striving to appear nonchalant. "Ciprian will make a fine Lieutenant, I'm sure." The last few words grated between his teeth.

"Perhaps the Captain didn't choose you because you're the Abhorsen's nephew," Sino mused, "and we all know how close the Abhorsen is to the King."

Ghalio nearly rolled his eyes at the old man's stupidity. "Cor– _Lieutenant_ Ciprian is also the Abhorsen's nephew," he pointed out flatly.

Sino blinked. "Oh, right. Of course, sir. Well, maybe it was because you were such good friends with the King before."

"Maybe," replied Ghalio shortly. He really did not want to talk about it. "Goodnight, Lancepesade."

"G'night, sir."

When Sino had gone, Ghalio ducked into his tent. Hallam was snoring loudly and Ghalio glared in his direction as he crawled into his bedroll, groaning as he stretched out his limbs. His younger cousin was now his superior officer. It couldn't bear thinking about. Something would have to be done. "Not now," Ghalio muttered to himself as he turned onto his side in the dark. "Wait for it. Just wait."

_A/N: I am structuring the Royal Guard (and thus the Rebels) after the military in the Middle Ages. The Captain leads a Company, which is made up of Platoons led by Lieutenants and Sergeants. Within the Platoons are Sections led by Corporals, who are assisted by Lancepesades. Lancepesades were experienced veteran Privates. There is also the Ensign, or standard-bearer, who ranks between Corporal and Lieutenant. Sergeants and Lancepesades are non-commissioned officers, and Captains, Lieutenants, Ensigns, and Corporals are commissioned officers, and thus members of the nobility._


	3. Prisoners

_A/N: For those of you who felt sorry for Ghalio in the previous chapter, he is not a nice person and doesn't deserve your sympathy. For those of you who felt afraid for his cousin Ciprian, you're on the right track. And now we're back at the palace!_

**Prisoners**

_She lay curled up and shivering in a pile of mouldy straw. Across the tiny cell on the floor were a plate and a tin cup, both empty. She was cold. She was hungry. She would have cried but she felt she had no tears left._

_Suddenly, she heard strange sounds coming from above: the clash of steel upon steel and raised voices. She was too weak to stand, but she managed to raise her head._

_After awhile a new sound reached her ears: the clatter of hobnailed boots on stone floors. "Free the prisoners," a voice commanded, and there was a confused din of banging and clattering and voices calling out. Finally a key rattled in her door. She tried to push herself up, but fell back into the straw._

_The door of her cell opened and several people clad in red and gold swept in. They were all holding swords in their hands, and for a moment she was afraid that they had come to kill her. One of them, a young man, knelt by her side. "Charter," he breathed as he stared at her face. He reached out and she flinched away from his touch, but his concerned expression made her pause._

_Finally she was able to cry again, burying her shorn head in her hands. She felt the stranger's arms around her, comforting her, and this time she did not resist. As the man wrapped her snugly in his cloak she dimly heard him giving orders, and finally had the courage to look up at him. She noticed that he wore a golden circlet on his helmeted head. Surely he could not be the King. He was barely more than a boy._

"_Sire," said a woman standing nearby. "I think she is one of the Clayr."_

_The young man looked at her and gave an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, Lady Clayr. You will be all right now."_

Illirae felt very small and alone as she stood before King Rothain. She knew that as a member of the Clayr Bloodline she ought to be as highly regarded as the King, but the thought only served to make her feel even more miserable and helpless. The King sitting in the throne had changed considerably from the one to whom she had pledged her services. During her time as a Seer at the palace, the Clayr had watched the young monarch's slow transformation to madness with dread, knowing that the time to ask him for her freedom would eventually come.

She glanced at the Chancellor and the Keeper of the Seal, who watched impassively. It was time for her to speak. "Your Majesty," she said hesitantly, "I have come to the end of my service to you." The King made no sign that he had even heard her, and Illirae felt heat rising to her face. She looked at her feet to avoid the sympathetic gaze of a young Royal Guard standing by the throne. "It has been five years ago to the day since you freed me from captivity, when I swore loyalty to you as a personal Seer. My term of service has ended, and I beg leave to return to the Glacier."

The King's head jerked and Illirae immediately winced. She should have known better than to mention the Clayr at all. Over a decade ago, during the war with the barbarians, the Clayr had all withdrawn to the safety of their icy home, leaving the Royal Family to defend the Kingdom alone. Since then, relations between the Glacier and the Palace had been strained. Illirae's bond had prevented her from leaving the King to rejoin her family– until now.

King Rothain was not even looking at her, though Illirae was painfully aware of the Chancellor, the Keeper of the Seal, and the young Royal Guard watching. It was all she could do to remain on her feet rather than cower in the middle of that cold marble floor. Finally, the King roused himself enough to glance at her. He gave a little shake of his head before sinking back into contemplation.

Chancellor Oraz's face was grim as he turned to Illirae. "Although you have served King Rothain for the allotted time, Illirae of the Clayr, he still has need of you. Your request to be released has been denied."

Illirae twisted a fold of her dress between her hands. "I – I do not understand," she faltered, looking at the Chancellor imploringly. "The King assured me that at the end of five years he would end my service."

"As you may have noticed, the Kingdom is in a bit of a crisis at the moment," said the Keeper of the Seal, assistant to the Chancellor. Illirae noticed that the other woman was avoiding her gaze. "Your talents would be most helpful to the Kingdom at this desperate time of need."

"I am not sure what I can do for you," said the Clayr fretfully.

The Chancellor glanced at the King before speaking. "When King Rothain accepted your service, he was labouring under the supposition that the Clayr would remain friendly to the Crown in the future. At present you are the only person in Belisaere who possesses the Sight to a significant degree. With the Clayr choosing to remain uninvolved in the conflict, you must understand the advantage that you confer. The rebels could attack any day now, and that encounter could prove devastating for both sides."

Illirae shook her head, taking a small step back from the throne. "When I swore my services to the King," she said, "I did so as a token of my gratitude. It was a gift, freely given."

"A gift in return for your freedom," retorted the Chancellor. "Would you rather he had left you in that barbarian dungeon, starving in the dark and cold?"

"Of course not," said Illirae, tears of helplessness and anger coming to her eyes. "But I believe it is the duty of a King to protect his citizens. You say I was given my freedom, but of late I have been no better than a prisoner in this palace."

"You are out of order!" the Chancellor shouted, and Illirae ducked her head. She had never heard the elderly man raise his voice before. The Chancellor closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before opening them again. "I am truly sorry," he said, gently this time. "Your request has been denied."

Illirae stared up at the ceiling as she tried to hold back her tears. When she was in control again, she sniffed and nodded. "All right," she said, wiping her eyes discreetly. "If the King has such desperate need of me, where would his Highness like me to focus my Sight?"

She looked at King Rothain, who remained unresponsive. Finally the Keeper of the Seal whispered into the Chancellor's ear. Oraz cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should concentrate on the palace itself. The King has expressed concern regarding the possibility of treachery from within."

Illirae glanced at the King, who looked far from concerned at the moment, but she could very well believe the Chancellor's words. She knew the extent of the King's paranoia – the whole Kingdom did, ever since the Queen's execution. Nearly crushed by feelings of helplessness and despair, Illirae obediently closed her eyes and connected with the Charter.

_Darkness. She was cold. Faint sounds tickled her ears: voices muttering, water dripping, tiny claws scurrying – rats? The slower, steadier beat of heavy footsteps coming her way._

_A light approached and passed, shining through a barred door and onto the ground. A thin arm lay in that light, an arm with a strange tattoo encircling the flesh just above the elbow. The light was leaving. The footsteps faded. Darkness again._

_Flicker._

_A town square. Night-time. Guttering torches illuminated several figures on a platform. An order was given. A lever was pulled. A trapdoor was opened._

_A figure fell through the platform and hung, squirming, suspended by a rope around the neck. The torches flared. On the hooded figure's arm was a tattoo. _

Illirae gasped as she came out of the vision. It had been so vivid, and it took her some time to realize that she was kneeling on the hard marble floor before the King's throne. Someone shook her gently, and she looked up and into the lined face of the Chancellor. Over his shoulder, the Keeper of the Seal was examining her curiously. "What did you see?" she asked.

Illirae gulped. She glanced at the young Royal Guard, who had taken a few steps forward. As for the King, he was regarding her with faint curiosity.

"I had a vision," she managed to say. The Chancellor waited patiently, and Illirae gathered her thoughts, closing her eyes as she recalled the details. "There is someone here, imprisoned. Lying in the dark."

"Who?" asked the Chancellor.

"I did not see a face," said the Clayr, more confident now. "Just a tattoo on the arm. This prisoner is to be executed, but – it will be wrong. You would be executing someone innocent."

The Chancellor started at that. He exchanged glances with the Keeper of the Seal, then they both looked at the King. The Chancellor seemed to come to a swift conclusion. "Very well," he said, straightening up and helping Illirae to stand too. "We shall go to the dungeons. At once. Come."

Illirae cast a confused glance at the King as the Chancellor swept her out of the room. He hadn't said a word, but then most everyone in the palace knew that it was primarily the Chancellor who ran things around here. Illirae looked at the old man beside her. He had always been courteous to her. She couldn't imagine how he coped, trying to hold the Kingdom together while their ruler descended ever deeper into madness.

Outside of the throne room they were met by two Guards who conducted them to the dungeons. Along halls and down staircases they walked. Down, down, down, until finally they came to the stairway leading to the dungeons. Straightaway they were escorted to the office of the jailor, a Corporal Tralon.

"We wish to see a prisoner," said the Chancellor, not wasting any time.

Illirae blinked as she was prodded forward. This was her cue to speak. "Er – this prisoner has a tattoo around the arm, here," she said, gesturing at her own arm.

Corporal Tralon nodded in comprehension. "A clan tattoo. You're talking about the Traveller Kelsa. She is scheduled for execution tomorrow."

"Yes," said the Chancellor, "but we need a second look at her case. She is to be released from the dungeons."

The Corporal shuffled through some papers on his desk. "Kelsa was convicted of attempting to murder the King," he said grimly. "If I release her, the proper formalities will be followed. You take full responsibility, Chancellor?"

"I do," said the old man. He took the proffered quill pen and signed where indicated. Illirae was struck by the immense faith that the Chancellor was putting in her vision. Attempted regicide was no verdict to be lightly questioned, especially in King Rothain's court.

Tralon watched as the Chancellor completed the form. "Very well, then."

Taking a ring of keys from a drawer in his desk, the Corporal led them through a locked door and down a stone-lined hallway into the dungeons. They proceeded down more passages and through more locked doors, Tralon nodding at the guards as they passed through. Each time a door clanged shut and was locked behind them Illirae shivered. It was getting colder.

After passing through the fifth door, Tralon lit a lantern.

"There are no torches on the walls here?" asked the Chancellor. His voice echoed eerily around them.

Tralon shook his head. "These dungeons are reserved for those convicted of the severest crimes. They receive no light other than the lanterns of the guards who bring them food."

Illirae jumped as a man slammed himself against a barred door. He babbled at her unintelligibly, reaching through the bars with a long-nailed hand. There was something terrible in his face, an animal rage that made Illirae recoil and grab the Chancellor, though what the old man could do to protect her she did not know.

"Get back, there," said Tralon, striking the bars with the truncheon he wore instead of a sword. "Sorry about that," he apologized in an undertone. Illirae nodded mutely. The Chancellor patted her hand as they continued down the corridor.

Finally Tralon stopped at one of the cells and hung the lantern on a hook. "Kelsa?" he called as he took out his ring of keys. "You are to be released into the custody of Chancellor Oraz. Your sentence is suspended pending further investigation by the Chancellor."

In the darkness of the cell a figure sat up.

"How long has she been in here?" whispered Illirae.

"Five months. She was imprisoned at the start of the rebellion." The door creaked as it slid open. "Come along, Kelsa," the jailor called.

A woman shuffled forward, shielding her eyes from the light with both hands. Her dress was torn and stained, and encircling one thin arm was an intricate tattoo. She squinted at the three of them and smiled, stretching her cracked and bleeding lips. "You're getting me out of here?" she asked hoarsely. "About time."

_A/N: So now we've been introduced to the main Clayr player in this particular tale. Reviews are welcome!_


	4. In the Archives

_A/N: I'm going camping this weekend, so rather than make you all wait until Monday for an update, I decided to post early. Review replies will be sent when I get back!_

**In the Archives**

_Chancellor Oraz walked with the King through the palace hall, flanked by guards. "You say the Abhorsen has chosen his successor?"_

"_Yes, Majesty. His young niece."_

"_That is happy news," said King Edrian. "I would like to meet her sometime. See that appropriate congratulations are sent, and a letter of invitation."_

_The Chancellor bowed his head. "Of course."_

"_Now, Oraz. What were you saying about the – oof!"_

_The air rang as the guards drew their swords, but they paused when they realized exactly who had assaulted their King. Apparently young Prince Rothain had been practicing with his toy bow and arrow. The boy was sliding off the table he had chosen as his perch, looking shamefaced._

_The King's eyes twinkled, and suddenly he clutched the toy arrow to his chest with both hands and made a great show of dying. He dramatically collapsed against the wall and slid down to sprawl gracelessly on the floor. "Prince Rothain!" the Chancellor said with a mock gasp. "You have killed the King!"_

_The boy laughed and ran over to his father, dropping his little wooden bow. The guards smiled indulgently as the King wrestled with his third child on the carpet. King Edrian often exasperated his court by refusing to follow the proper protocols and etiquette, but really, there was something to be said for his unorthodox approach._

"Here you are, Chancellor."

"Thank you Madran" said Oraz, accepting the goblet of wine and taking a hasty sip. He flipped over a parchment page and scanned the lines of scrawled text.

He was nestled in a particularly unkempt corner of the palace archives devoted to transcripts of court trials. The archivists had been dismissed from service a year ago and things had fallen into spectacular disarray since then. Not for the first time, the Chancellor wished that King Rothain had not accused the archivists of treason and exiled them from Belisaere. But he couldn't question a direct order from the King.

Ensign Madran, the guard who had brought him the wine, regarded the stacks of crumpled pages. "Anything I can help you with? Lady Tafline sent me to assist you," he explained.

"Er – yes, all right." The Chancellor paused and rubbed his tired eyes. Some help would be most welcome at this stage; he could always count on the Keeper of the Seal to send assistance when he needed it. The wine had probably been her idea too. And the Ensign, unlike most guardsmen, was exceptionally bright. "I'm looking for the records of a trial," he explained. "It took place five months ago, at the start of the rebellion. A woman, a Traveller named Kelsa, was convicted of attempting to assassinate the King."

The guard looked at him quickly. "I remember that day," he said.

"Who doesn't?" remarked the Chancellor with more bitterness than he had intended.

He remembered it all. The assassination attempt that morning during one of the King's rare public appearances at an archery tournament. The King's foul rage when he realized that someone had tried to kill him. The arrest of a female archer in the crowd by Lieutenant Padric. The hidden trials in small dark rooms and the whispered testimony. And late that night, Captain Betrys of the Royal Guard telling the King in no uncertain terms why his people were rebelling against him and why his subjects wanted to kill him. The subsequent argument shouted through the throne room. And the Captain clandestinely gathering a third of the Guard that very night and marching out of Belisaere. Oh yes, it had been a memorable day.

"What do you need the records for?" Madran asked as he pulled a stack of papers towards him.

The Chancellor sighed. "Illirae had a vision that one of our prisoners would be wrongfully executed. The prisoner turned out to be this Kelsa."

Madran nodded. "Ah. I see." The tone of his voice was carefully neutral

Chancellor Oraz smiled; young Madran was sharp. The Ensign knew as well as he did that a wrongful execution would be detrimental to the King's reputation, given that only a year ago he had put a much-loved Queen to death. As Chancellor, it was Oraz's duty to see that the King projected a certain image, and his duty had become much more challenging over the past couple of years. Ever since the King's "madness" was said to have started.

After an hour or so, Madran passed over a thin stack of parchment. "Chancellor – here."

Oraz brought his candle closer and scanned the text, his long nose nearly touching the page. "This is it," he confirmed. "The transcripts from the trial. It looks like there were several interrogations, at different times..."

"Did she confess under duress?" asked Madran, giving in to curiosity.

"Perhaps." Oraz shuffled quickly through the papers. "Wait a moment... There is witness testimony here that has been discounted. And several sections of Kelsa' testimony too. Dismissed by the King's signature." He leaned forward to read, lips moving rapidly. When he was finished he sat back in his chair, wiped his brow, and took a large gulp of wine.

"Chancellor? Chancellor Oraz?" Madran was watching him in apprehension.

"Ensign," said the old man quietly. "Have Lady Tafline find Lieutenant Padric and place him under arrest."

The young man blinked, but didn't question his orders. Soon Chancellor Oraz was alone in the archives among the papers and dust. He looked down at the scrawled writing. According to a few witnesses and Kelsa herself, Lieutenant Padric had been seen firing an arrow at the Royal Box where the King had been sitting. Lieutenant Padric, the very officer who had arrested Kelsa and been put in charge of investigations. But why had the King dismissed the evidence? Had he been influenced in some way?

The Chancellor rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his hands. So Illirae was right after all. Kelsa had not tried to kill the King. According to the records her father was an archivist, which must have only served to increase the discrimination and hatred against her. After all, the archivists had been convicted of writing treasonous lies after the Queen's death. Maybe the King just hated the archivists, or perhaps he had been misled, but in any case Illirae's vision had been correct and Kelsa was innocent.

Taking up the papers, the Chancellor left the archives. After stopping at his office to deposit the evidence, he returned to the throne room. The guards outside the double doors nodded at him courteously as they let him by. They were good people, good and loyal, which was especially precious during this difficult time.

Captain Finessa of the Royal Guard and one of her Lieutenants were making reports when he walked in. It mostly consisted of rattling off numbers, and Oraz was convinced that the King was not paying the slightest bit of attention, but it was procedure. He waited patiently for them to finish. By the side of the throne stood that new guard – Jyss, he remembered. He was pleased that so far she had managed not to rouse the King's ire, but he did not know how long that would last. Rothain could be unpredictable.

"Something new has come up," said the Chancellor at the conclusion of the report, taking a step forward. "Lieutenant Padric is being placed under arrest. I sent Ensign Madran to fetch Lady Tafline," he explained to Captain Finessa. "Majesty, with Padric demoted we are fast running out of officers."

"Corporal Teira can replace him while the Chancellor sorts out what happened," said Captain Finessa. The King nodded, and Lieutenant Sonchia left the throne room to carry out the promotion.

"Still, Majesty," said Oraz once she had gone, "I suggest that we request the presence of the Abhorsen."

King Rothain's head snapped up, and he looked directly into the Chancellor's eyes. The old man did not like it, but he did not look away either. The King licked his lips and shook his head. "No."

"Majesty –"

"I said no!" The King's voice echoed around the room. The young guard jumped. Rothain, who had half-risen during his outburst, sat back in his throne. A purple vein in his left temple was throbbing.

"At least hear my reasoning." When the King did not object, Oraz continued. "The Abhorsen is faithful to the Crown. He always has been, Majesty, and he remains ever your servant. He is a good leader and well-respected throughout the Kingdom. We may need his support, especially at such a delicate time as this."

Captain Finessa glanced at him. She cleared her throat, and said, "Majesty, I concur with the Chancellor."

Oraz knew what she was thinking. With the Abhorsen here, there would be more rational minds about. He himself had some doubts as to the King's sanity, but by the Charter he would not voice them. With the Abhorsen's steadying presence at court they might be able to stave off the whispers of anarchy.

"My King," he said when the young man had made no reply, "I strongly urge you to call for the Abhorsen."

King Rothain deliberated silently. The Chancellor and Captain Finessa exchanged glances, wondering if they were going to get an answer from him. Finally, he nodded. "Call for him," he said hoarsely. "But we do not wish to see him more than is strictly necessary. Are we understood?"

Oraz was surprised, as the Abhorsen was one of the King's strongest supporters. But he had no choice but to agree. "It shall be as you command."

He and the Captain bowed and left the throne room together. Outside the doors, they halted for a private conference.

"I'll have message-hawks sent," said Captain Finessa. "Last I heard he was somewhere in the south battling something or other." She paused, then asked, "Do you think he will come?"

"Most definitely," answered the Chancellor. "During the reign of King Edrian hardly a month went by that we did not see the Abhorsen at court."

The Captain smiled in remembrance. "That was a good time."

"Yes," Chancellor Oraz agreed. "Belisaere was beautiful and full of gardens. And people! The palace could barely contain the court. Such an illustrious gathering. The halls were bright and full of the laughter of children." He smiled sadly. "Rothain had been a child then. Before..."

"The barbarian invasions," said Captain Finessa. She bit her lip in frustration. "It just seems like that was the beginning of the end for us. Charter curse the Northerners! We drove them out eventually, but they still managed to ruin the Kingdom by slaying the rest of the Royal Family."

"Ruin?" The Chancellor raised his bushy eyebrows. "We are not ruined. Not quite. Not yet. And hopefully the Abhorsen will come and restore some semblance of –" He stopped. The word "sanity" was hanging in the air between them.

Captain Finessa clapped him on the shoulder. "Do not worry, Chancellor. We shall get through this. Betrys cannot hold out forever, and hopefully she will come to her senses before she does anything rash. Meanwhile..." She shrugged.

The Chancellor watched her walk away. "Meanwhile," he whispered to himself, "we look after the King, and hope for a miracle."

_A/N: What could that miracle be? And will there even be a miracle? What will the Abhorsen do? And why did Padric try to assassinate the King? And why do flamingos stand on one leg? Answers to four of these questions will appear later in the story. Until then, reviews are most welcome._


	5. The King's Story

_A/N: I just decided to add some more chapters to this story, as inevitably seems to happen whenever I write, so I'm scrambling to fit them all into the storyline I'd previously determined. In any case, this one is still on time, and I am determined to keep up with weekly updates. For those of you who are looking for explanations, hopefully this chapter will clear a few things up._

**The King's Story**

_A dark-haired youth made his way slowly down a ladder._

"_Ciprian? Ciprian?" A woman swept into the room and paused when she saw the boy. "What were you doing up there?" she asked sharply. "I told you not to go up to the Observatory."_

"_I just wanted to see," the youth, Ciprian, explained._

_His mother grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the study. "You don't need to see those awful barbarians lurking on the shores of the river. Thank the Charter they haven't found a way in. Do you know what they would do to you?"_

"_Yes," Ciprian mumbled._

"_They'd kill you without a second thought," said the woman sternly as they went down the spiralling staircase. "Like they did your aunt and uncle, and the rest of their village. Your cousin Ghalio was lucky to have survived. I don't know why he refused to stay with us. Of course he's nineteen now and can do what he wishes." She shook her head. "But still you never take this danger seriously, Ciprian. I don't understand it. Your sister doesn't wander onto the battlements or sneak up to the Observatory."_

"_No she doesn't because she's perfect, isn't she?" the boy snapped. At once his pale cheeks coloured. "I'm sorry," he muttered, hanging his head._

_His mother put her arms around him. "Oh Ciprian," she sighed. "I'm sorry too. I don't mean to be harsh, but with your father gone, and now my brother and his wife, I couldn't stand to lose you as well." She pulled back and wiped her eyes. "I just want you to be careful."_

"_I know, mother," Ciprian reassured her._

"_It just kills me every time Thorael leaves the House," his mother said, shaking her head as they continued down the stairs. "I only thank the Charter that Favilliel doesn't accompany him anymore."_

_Ciprian gave her a half-smile and attempted to lighten the conversation. "He's the Abhorsen, mother. He can take care of himself. And Favilliel will be an Abhorsen too, and she can definitely take care of herself. If anything, I think you should worry about me. Whatever am I going to become?" He grinned and spread his hands self-deprecatingly._

_His mother looked him directly in the eyes. "You _will_ amount to something, Ciprian. Of that I have no doubt."_

Ciprian approached the Captain's tent nervously. A soldier crouched by a cooking-fire gave him a salute. "Evening, Lieutenant." Ciprian did a small double-take; he was still not used to his new rank. He felt bad for Vansen, who had taken to staying in his tent at all hours, refusing to talk to anybody. There were rumours going around the camp that he was drinking, depressed, suicidal – none of which made Ciprian feel any better about the circumstances of his promotion.

Also, taking Vansen's old post meant giving orders to Ghalio. The other man was good about it and didn't seem to mind, but it felt strange being his older cousin's superior officer. He wondered why Betrys hadn't promoted Ghalio instead of him. Perhaps it was because Ghalio had been the King's close friend before the rebellion. Perhaps he couldn't be trusted to take direct action against King Rothain. Ciprian wasn't sure what he thought about it himself, but he was a soldier, and it was a soldier's duty to follow orders. No matter how irrational they seemed. He'd already been declared a traitor to the Crown anyway, so for better or for worse he was allied to the rebel cause.

Upon reaching the Captain's tent the soldier posted outside gave him a smart salute. "The Captain's expecting you, Lieutenant," she said as she pulled aside the tent-flap, and Ciprian ducked inside.

Lieutenant Anthone was making a report to Captain Betrys, who glanced at Ciprian upon his entrance and motioned for him to wait. Ciprian stood quietly in the corner to watch the dynamics of a very odd mother-son relationship.

"Sergeant Kier is complaining about the low stores," Anthone was saying. "He's having a hard time coming up with regular rations."

"I see no reason for shortages," said the Captain, frowning.

"The farmers and woodsmen continue to be generous, and our hunting parties are successful. The Sergeant and I suspect that soldiers are keeping what they are given for themselves rather than turning it in to the stores."

Betrys pursed her lips in annoyance. "Very well. Order searches for contraband and punish the offenders. I put you in charge of this, Lieutenant."

Anthone executed a bow and turned on his heel before leaving the tent without so much as a "Goodnight mother". Ciprian felt a sudden surge of alarm: In his tent was some cake a farmer had given him! Hopefully he could get back before it was searched to get rid of the evidence. He'd probably have a stomach-ache, but better that than public humiliation right after his big promotion.

"Step forward, Lieutenant." Ciprian did so, standing at attention and fixing his eyes straight ahead at what happened to be an uninteresting section of the tent wall. He could deal with the cake later. "At ease. Have a seat." Ciprian lowered himself gingerly onto a wooden folding chair opposite the desk from his Captain. The woman regarded him. "How do you like your new command?"

"Very well," said Ciprian. "Corporal Hallam is quite promising. It feels strange giving orders to Corporal Ghalio, however."

Betrys nodded. "I understand. But you will need to get used to your situation, Ciprian, and fast. Now, I know that your uncle is the Abhorsen and utterly loyal to the Crown, but I also know that you are loyal to me. The time has come for you to prove that loyalty."

Ciprian nodded. "Yes, Captain." Would there be some kind of test? Some sort of strange Lieutenant initiation that was kept secret from everyone else?

The older woman leaned forward, and Ciprian held his breath. "When you were a Corporal, you demonstrated your loyalty by following Lieutenant Anthone's orders. Now you are a Lieutenant, and a leader. You must show initiative and devotion to our cause, and that is why I have called you here tonight. I need you to understand why I am doing this. I need you to understand what King Rothain has become. In order for that to happen, I will need to tell you his story." Ciprian relaxed; that wasn't so bad. King Rothain's life was the subject of much debate. It would be nice to have a version from someone who actually knew him for a change.

The Captain got up from her chair, walked to a side table, and poured two glasses half-full of amber liquid from a dark bottle. "I don't know about you, but I'll need a drink to get through this. We're not on duty, so I'll look the other way this time." Ciprian bit his lip but said nothing. He didn't like drinking – he was easily affected by it and happened to do very stupid things while drunk, but in the present circumstances it would be rude to refuse.

Once they were seated with their drinks, Betrys ran a calloused hand through her short grey hair and sighed. "Where were you during the war, Ciprian?"

"I stayed in the Abhorsen's House with my family." Cooped up on that small island for seven years, only going ashore to hunt or trade, had probably been the most trying time of his life.

"Indeed, you would have been a child when it began." Betrys sat back in her chair. "Fifteen years ago the barbarians declared war on the Kingdom. During the Seven Years' War there were many casualties, especially among Charter Mages who were particularly hated by the Northerners. The Court was moved to Olmond but the Royal Family insisted on staying in Belisaere, and the Chancellor stayed with them." The Captain took a sip from her drink. "The Royal Army was decimated, and finally only one Company remained: The Royal Guard, of which I was Captain."

Betrys lowered her eyes, and when she next spoke it was barely above a whisper. "I was there when the Palace was taken." Her fingers turned white as she clutched her glass even tighter. "I saw King Edrian, Rothain's father, hacked to pieces in the throne room. I saw the Queen lead her older children in a charge, saw the Crown Prince run through by a spear, his sister throwing herself on the killers half-crazed. It was the strength of the Royal Family that gave me time to take the two younger children away."

The Captain abruptly stood up and wandered to the side-table, still holding her drink. Ciprian watched her, his mouth slightly open. "Even now I find it funny that the future monarch was decided that very second by who stood closest to the door. I'd grabbed the two children to take them out of the room, but the Princess was killed by a stray arrow. I happened to be left with the one who would go crazy." She gave a bitter laugh and topped up her glass with a shaking hand.

"What happened then?" Ciprian prompted.

The Captain returned to her chair. "I took Prince Rothain, the Chancellor, and the remnant of the Royal Guard to the harbour. I made the decision to launch the ships. Of the Royal Guard there were less than two hundred left. At the time Anthone was barely a Corporal and Vansen had just started training."

Ciprian took a polite sip of his drink during the brief silence that followed. The liquor burned all the way down. It was all he could do to keep from coughing. Thankfully, Captain Betrys did not notice.

"The Chancellor carried out the coronation on the deck of the King's ship," the Captain continued. "Rothain was fifteen. I remember him at the time, standing frozen in shock throughout the entire ceremony. He'd just lost his entire family that very morning, slaughtered right before his eyes. Afterwards, the Chancellor and I went to his room, and you know what? He was just a boy, a boy terrified of being King. He came close to crying then, but he pushed it all down. In that very moment he grew up." Betrys gestured with her hand. "In retrospect, it couldn't have been good for him to have that enormous grief gnawing at him unexpressed all this time. It's no wonder he eventually went mad. And it couldn't have helped, a teenager stuck on a ship for two years with guards and sailors for company, everyone calling him King and looking to him for leadership and guidance when he was the one who needed it the most."

The Captain fell into a pensive silence. Ciprian spied a potted plant nearby, and an idea formed in his head. As he cautiously moved his glass towards the pot he ventured a question: "Did you notice anything wrong with him then?"

Betrys shook her head. "No. He proved a very able leader. The invasion lasted two years, and at seventeen Rothain commanded the fleet and retook Belisaere. With the help of the Clayr – and your uncle the Abhorsen – we drove the barbarians north. Court was re-established in Belisaere. We tried to build up the Royal Guard again, but it was especially difficult because Charter Mages had been hunted down and executed during the Barbarian Rule. That's why so many of the guards today are quite young. The Army was all but destroyed – it was disbanded and joined with the Guard." Betrys paused to take a sip of her drink. Ciprian froze in the middle of pouring his own drink into the potted plant. "At eighteen Rothain made a treaty with the barbarian lordlings after the Battle of the Mountains, and at twenty he was married." She sighed and stared into her glass. "He was so promising then."

"What happened?" asked Ciprian, desperate to keep her talking as he swiftly emptied his glass. "Is it true his crown was poisoned by Ancelstierrans?"

The woman looked at him sternly, and Ciprian flushed. Fortunately he had managed to finish pouring out his drink. "Two years ago the King started to become reclusive and paranoid," said Captain Betrys sadly. Ciprian looked up, alert; this was the part that interested him the most. "He began to suspect his wife of adultery, and set people to spy on her. That was the beginning of his madness, when he started the practice of being surrounded at all times by a diamond of protection. Things became worse. The Queen and Corporal Dernic, her supposed lover, were executed the year after. Dernic had been Vansen's best Corporal, you know. The Court Doctor was sent away to Ancelstierre, and the archivists were dismissed from service on charges of treason. And then, five months ago, an archer at a tournament attempted to assassinate the King. Clearly the common people had lost faith in their ruler. They'd had enough, and so had I."

Ciprian reflected quietly on what he had been told. As a Royal Guard he'd known the rumours of the King's madness. He'd even seen Rothain a couple of times, and had thought there was something wrong with the young man. But Rothain was the last surviving member of the Royal Family – in fact, he was the only member of the Royal Family. He had executed his Queen and had been left without an heir. What could you do when there was a madman on the throne and nobody to take his place?

"Captain, I have a question," said Ciprian, toying with his empty glass. It was what everyone in the Kingdom was wondering, and now was his chance to ask.

Betrys gestured for him to continue.

"Why did the King go mad?"

"Nobody knows," the Captain admitted heavily. "Was it the heavy responsibility put on him at a young age? Grief? Maybe it was in his blood? I do not know, Ciprian. But King Rothain is not fit to rule." She regarded the young man solemnly, then caught sight of something. "You've finished your drink, Lieutenant. Would you care for another?"

_A/N: So now we've met Ciprian. Just one more chapter, and then we'll know all of the principle players. Reviews are much appreciated!_


	6. Chosen

_A/N: I actually had this chapter written and ready to be posted on Saturday, as usual, but FFN was going wonky and I couldn't upload any documents. So blame the establishment for the delay! Okay, so now we'll meet the final "main character" of this story._

**Chosen**

"_So this is Favilliel."_

_The little girl stared up at the tall stranger. Her father placed a hand on the back of her neck. "Say hello to your uncle."_

"_Hello uncle," she said, still staring. He wore a sword that was longer than she was tall. She decided that he must be very strong to use a weapon like that._

"_Thorael," her mother was saying, "must you take her now? I respect your choice, but she is so young."_

"_The earlier the better, I say." His voice was very deep. "Mother started my training when I was not much older than she is now."_

_The girl's father spoke next. "Are you absolutely certain that she is the one, though? It couldn't be Ciprian, or Ghalio?"_

_The stranger shook his head. "I am certain of it." He looked down at the girl, who gazed fearlessly back. "I know an Abhorsen when I see one."_

Although the northern barbarians had been driven from the Kingdom, Belisaere was still a shadow of its former self. Many of the buildings had sustained damage from the invasion, not to mention the violent re-taking of the capital city by the King's fleet. A whole section of the warehouses lining the docks had been burned during that particular episode.

Favilliel followed her uncle through the city streets. He was a large man, and it was easier to walk behind him than to try to forge her own path at his side. She looked around and whistled between her teeth. "What a dump."

The Abhorsen glanced over his shoulder. "It used to be worse," he grunted. "The people have been hard at work over the past five years, rebuilding."

"They could try picking up after themselves." Favilliel wrinkled her nose as she skirted a particularly foul puddle of something.

Her uncle chose to ignore her. Sixteenth Abhorsen Thorael was not known for his sense of humour.

They emerged from the narrow way onto a wider – and cleaner – road. Favilliel jumped to the side to avoid someone on horseback, and narrowly missed falling into the gutter. "I hate cities," she said under her breath. She and her uncle had spent the last few months tramping around the countryside, battling necromancers and sorcerers and witches and Free Magic creatures in the wilds of the Kingdom. These evils had flourished ever since the invasion, when so many Charter Mages had been slain by the barbarians. With new threats popping up everywhere, Favilliel often felt that her work would never be done. But she still preferred hunting down her enemies in the deep dark woodlands to prancing about in court.

"Why does the King want to see you?" Favilliel asked as she waved away a merchant trying to sell her some lemons.

The Abhorsen spoke without turning his head or slowing down: "He probably wants assistance to cope with the rebellion. I've been expecting him to summon me for a while. Things must be serious."

Favilliel bit her lip nervously. Her brother Ciprian and cousin Ghalio were allied with the rebels, and declared traitors. She had no idea where they were, or what they were up to, or even if they were all right. If anything ever happened to Ciprian her mother would be very upset.

As they came to a square and circumnavigated a spectacular fountain, Favilliel almost ran up against a woman hurrying home from her shopping. "Excuse me," Favilliel said automatically, and paused when she saw her expression. The woman ducked her head and hurried on, but Favilliel stared after her until her uncle called for her to hurry up.

She jogged to catch up with her uncle and fell into step behind him. The look on the woman's face had been unmistakeable: _Fear_. Favilliel glanced around and was able to discern the same expression on almost everyone's face. She did not know why she hadn't seen it before. With a shiver, Favilliel suddenly noticed that there were no children about. Vividly she imagined them always at home, inventing idle games by day and learning lessons by candlelight, their parents guarding them from the outside world jealously, like treasures. The people of Belisaere were all afraid. It couldn't be the lingering effects of the war; as her uncle had pointed out, they were rebuilding. That horrible time was behind them.

Favilliel agilely ducked to the side as someone emptied a bucket from an upstairs window. It had to be something in the present that was bothering these people. The rebellion? Sympathies had been split when Captain Betrys had marched out of the city with a third of the Royal Guard. There had not been an open confrontation between the two sides yet, though it was only a matter of time. Still, it couldn't just be the rebellion, or even the looming threat of civil war, that was causing this widespread fear.

"We're almost there," her uncle called. "Try to make yourself presentable for the King."

The King. She had seen him before. And although her uncle was completely loyal to Rothain, Favilliel could not bring herself to trust him, given the things he had done – or was rumoured to have done. The people of Belisaere were afraid for the same reason that she was afraid. There was something terribly wrong with the Kingdom when a madman wore the crown.

She waited while her uncle spoke to the guards at the gate, then followed him up the Avenue of Stars to the palace. They were bowed through the doors, and awaiting them was a young guard.

"Abhorsen," he greeted courteously. "I am Ensign Madran. I was sent to welcome you."

"I remember you, Madran," said the Abhorsen briskly. He waved his arm. "Let's not waste time on decorum or idle chit-chat."

"Very well." The Ensign beckoned another guard forward. "Corporal Pheran will conduct you to the throne room."

Favilliel tapped her uncle on the arm. "You don't need me immediately, do you uncle?" The Abhorsen shook his head, and Favilliel watched as the older man was escorted down the hall and out of sight.

Madran bowed and motioned with his hand. "This way, milady."

Favilliel followed the Ensign through a side door, down a hall, and into a deserted library. She closed the door carefully behind them. Then she flung herself at the guard, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately.

"I missed you _so much_," she said when they finally paused to take a breath.

Madran wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. "Me too. Why am I so lucky?"

"Because I chose you," answered Favilliel promptly. "Did you get all of my letters?"

"Yes, I think so." Madran kissed the top of her head. "Charter, it is _so_ good to see you. Lately the palace has been a madhouse." He winced. "Maybe I shouldn't use that particular word..."

Favilliel wrinkled her nose. "The King hasn't improved at all?"

"No. And the Clayr, Illirae, asked him for her freedom – you know, because her five years of service are finally over. And he denied her."

"What!" Favilliel hissed. She had met Illirae several times during past visits to the palace and had liked the soft-spoken Clayr. She leaned against the back of an armchair and crossed her arms. "The King has no right to keep her any longer. I am sick of it. How can we expect someone like him to make all of the important decisions around here? Something has to be done, Madran."

The Ensign placed his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze seriously. "You know that's traitorous talk. Besides, we're the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and the Ensign. What could we do? Ring bells and wave the Royal flag at him?"

"I don't know," Favilliel admitted, rolling her eyes. "But someone should do something."

"Betrys already has," Madran pointed out.

Favilliel continued to reflect on the state of the Kingdom, even when Madran started kissing her again. But she suddenly remembered what she had been meaning to ask, and pulled back just as things were becoming heated. "Is there any word from Ciprian?"

Madran stared at her, but quickly recovered his composure. "No," he said, a bit testily. "I thought if he'd contact anyone, it would be you. You're his sister."

"And you're his best friend," Favilliel retorted. She sighed. "I haven't received any correspondence from him since the start of the rebellion. I hope he is all right."

"I'm sure he's fine." The Ensign tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear. "Ciprian is resourceful. He could always take care of himself. Which is more than I can say for you."

Favilliel gave him a mock glare, but before she could say anything they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. A guard stepped inside and stood to attention, pretending not to notice as they hastily moved away from each other. "Ensign Madran, your presence is requested in the throne room." Madran looked at Favilliel, who nodded to let him know that she was coming along.

They walked down several hallways until finally reaching a set of double doors. As they waited for the guards to remove the intricate protective spells, Madran and Favilliel shared a smile. Annoying as Madran could be, Favilliel was glad to see him again. Her uncle did not know about them at the Ensign's request, so they'd had to carry out their relationship in secret. Favilliel suspected that a fair amount of the Royal Guard knew about it too, but the guards tended to be a tight-knit group and tattlers were considered scum.

As a Corporal stationed by the door called out, "Ensign Madran and Abhorsen-in-Waiting Favilliel," they entered the room side-by-side. The Abhorsen was standing with the Chancellor, the Keeper of the Seal, and the Captain of the Guard before the throne, and Favilliel and Madran knelt on the marble floor as custom dictated.

"Thank you, Corporal Pheran," said Captain Finessa. "You are dismissed." With a final bow the young officer backed out of the room and closed the doors behind him.

Favilliel got to her feet, and it was all she could do to keep from staring. The King's appearance shocked her. He was much worse than when she had last seen him. His face was almost as white as her own, and purple veins could be seen under the skin. There were shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes, and he clutched the arms of his throne with gaunt and bony fingers. This man needed a healer. If not for that diamond of protection, Favilliel would probably have checked his brow for a fever.

Chancellor Oraz cleared his throat. "Ensign?" Madran looked at him. "The Abhorsen has just informed us that Corporal Ciprian was your very good friend. He heard his nephew remark that he trusted you above all others."

Favilliel and Madran exchanged glances. "We were friends," he answered cautiously. Favilliel was as puzzled as he was. What was this leading to?

Captain Finessa stepped forward to speak. "Ensign Madran, you have been chosen to infiltrate the rebel encampment." Favilliel stared at the woman. Was she in earnest? "You are to find out all you can about their current situation," the Captain continued, "and their plans against the Kingdom. Understood?"

Madran remained composed, but Favilliel could tell that he was upset. She was, too. What were they thinking, sending Madran alone into enemy territory? Nobody would believe that he had switched sides. But still he stood unwaveringly at attention. "Understood, Captain."

"Good. Prepare for departure. Sergeant Dailin will outfit you. Dismissed."

Madran stoically turned on his heel and left the throne room. As soon as she was able, Favilliel followed. She caught up to him as he was crossing a small stone-flagged courtyard. "Madran, wait." He stopped. "You know this plan isn't going to work." He remained silent. Favilliel sighed. "I do not want you to go, but I know you have to. So – just be careful, all right?" She placed her hand on his cheek. His impassive expression finally vanished and they embraced.

"I'll try," he whispered, keeping his emotions in check. "Though if Ciprian finds out what I am doing, using him, I'll deserve whatever happens to me."

"That's not true," Favilliel said with less strength than she would have liked. "You are only following orders. You're not the traitor, _he_ is." She gasped and put her hands over her mouth. "I can't believe I said that. It just slipped out."

Madran looked down at her with a sad smile. "It's all right," he assured her. "Nothing seems to be making sense anymore. We have a madman on the throne, and our best soldier is leading a rebellion. You and I are on one side, and Ciprian ended up on the other. Normally I'd tell myself that I was one of the good guys. But now I am not so sure."

"You _are_ good, Madran," said Favilliel, glaring at him.

"So is Ciprian."

She paused at that. "Well, that's what is so terrible about this rebellion," she murmured. "I cannot think of anyone involved who is truly bad. Except perhaps the King, but I do not think he can help it. Oh," she turned back to Madran, "promise me you'll be careful."

The Ensign cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. "I promise."

_A/N: Wow, that must be the shortest reunion ever. Poor Favilliel. Oh, and poor Madran too. Until next week (if FFN doesn't break down again), reviews are most welcome!_


	7. Attack

_A/N: I think I mentioned that most of the story was already written, but now I'm doing some major changes to it. I'm still going to try to update every week! It's just going to be more challenging than I thought... Anyway, all of the major players have been introduced by now, and we're back in Belisaere._

**Attack**

_A teenaged girl made her way between the tables, balancing four mugs of ale on a tray. She kept her head down as she placed the mugs on the table in the corner, avoiding eye contact with the four northern barbarians seated there. As she moved to leave, one of the barbarians grabbed her wrist. She whirled around, heart pounding, and nearly dropped the tray. The young barbarian said something to her in his guttural language, but she shook her head. She could not understand._

_One of his companions leaned forward. "He wants to know how old you are," the second barbarian translated._

_The girl glanced at the first barbarian, who offered her a smile. She ignored him and addressed his friend. "Sixteen." Then she wrenched her arm from his grip and walked away as quickly as she could without breaking into a run._

_In the back room, a woman glanced up from the pot of stew bubbling over the fire. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "All right, Jyss?"_

_The girl nodded. "Yes, mother. Just some northerners. There are more of them coming into the city every day." She placed some bread and cheese on her tray and went out again._

_A figure came barrelling through the door, and Jyss really did drop her tray this time. Furs – long hair – another barbarian. He spotted the others at the corner table and yelled at them in their guttural language. From his manner, something was very wrong. And anything wrong with the barbarians was right for the Kingdom. The four others sprang from their seats, grabbed their weapons, and dashed out of the inn without even paying for their drinks. Good riddance._

_As the girl bent down to clear the bread and cheese from the floor, a merchant seated nearby excitedly told her companions, "That man said some ships were spotted entering the bay!"_

_The girl's hand slipped and the tray clattered to the floor a second time. Ships entering the bay? Two years ago the barbarians had overrun Belisaere and occupied the Palace, and the surviving Prince and the Royal Guard had fled by sea. Had he finally returned to take back Belisaere? She ran to the back room to tell her parents._

"Captain Finessa and I discussed the placement of our patrols with the Abhorsen."

Jyss feigned deafness as she bustled around the King's bedchamber, pretending not to listen to the Chancellor making his report. As she had soon discovered, the King spend most of his time within the large network of rooms that made up his personal accommodations. Perhaps once a day he agreed to sit on his throne for necessary matters, but the rest of the time was spent brooding alone, isolated from the rest of the Kingdom.

"We do not know if Ensign Madran will succeed in infiltrating the encampment, but the best we can do now is keep an eye on rebel movements. The Abhorsen and Captain Finessa organized a new system of patrolling to do just that. I have the details, if you would like to read them."

Jyss glanced at Chancellor Oraz, who was holding a roll of parchment. The King, seated by the fire in a cushioned chair, did not look up. Ever since their arrival Rothain had avoided the Abhorsen and his niece. The two tall, pale, black-haired individuals made Jyss slightly nervous too, but the one time she and the Chancellor had tried to get the King to meet them had been disastrous: the walls of the small conference room were still scorched black. From then on the Chancellor, Captain, and Abhorsen met in the King's absence, with the Chancellor making formal reports afterwards. Between the three of them they were managing to keep everything running, and perhaps with the Abhorsen the Kingdom would hold together.

Frankly, Jyss was relieved that Chancellor Oraz was on their side. She liked him. They both had difficult jobs, and he was always quiet and calm and patient with her. She finished rearranging the books on the writing-desk, then poured a glass of water, mixing in some powder to make a soothing tonic. "Here you are, Majesty," she murmured, bringing forward the drink.

Rothain glanced up at her, and inwardly she shivered at the glassy look in his eyes. Those eyes never gave any warning, and there was no telling when the King's temper would flare up. But the diamond of protection dissolved, and she handed him the glass. He drained it.

Jyss stood with her hands behind her back, looking around the room. She had noticed that there were no portraits of the Queen. The other Corporals had told her that the King had removed them from the Palace after her trial and execution for adultery. Jyss supposed that the King did not want to be reminded of her, but there was still the famous painting at the museum in Belisaere. Even Jyss had seen it during a visit last year, and she thought the Queen had looked like a very nice lady – not at all like an adulteress.

King Rothain held out the empty glass and she took it from him. She noticed that the collar of his over-robe was twisted, and automatically reached out and straightened it with gentle fingers.

A strange look came over the King's face, and suddenly he was clutching his head and groaning in pain. He rocked forward, and Jyss and the Chancellor moved fast to catch him before he toppled to the floor. They lowered him gently onto the carpet where he lay. His body started to shake. Jyss' mouth went dry. What was happening? "Careful!" the Chancellor warned, and Jyss managed to duck a flailing limb.

"What's wrong with him?" she yelled, panicking.

"It's all right, it's all right," the Chancellor reassured her, struggling to pin down the King's legs. "One of his attacks. It'll pass soon. Help me hold him!"

Somehow Jyss managed to restrain King Rothain's arms, trying not to look at him. The sight of that pale and clammy face with the eyes rolled back was enough to give her the chills. Soon the convulsions subsided enough for her and the Chancellor to sit back, panting. The King lay on his side, the occasional tremble running through his thin frame.

Jyss absently rubbed at her bruised elbow. "Is it over?" she whispered.

"Yes." The Chancellor's grey hair was standing on end, and his face was red and perspiring. "These attacks are not very common. Usually they are preceded by severe headaches, but this one came on rather suddenly." He smoothed back the King's damp curls with an oddly fatherly gesture. "I will fetch some medicine to help him have a restful sleep. Stay with him while I am gone."

"Couldn't we – er – send someone for help?" asked Jyss, not wanting to be left alone.

Chancellor Oraz shook his head. "It's important that nobody sees him like this." He got slowly to his feet, straightened his robes, and smoothed down his hair. "You had better cast a diamond of protection. If he wakes up without one, he's liable to have another fit." And with that he left the room.

Jyss stared down at the pallid young man, amazed that this was the most powerful person in the Kingdom. She carefully cast a diamond of protection around both herself and the King, crouching at his side but fearful of touching him.

Although she was still nervous about being left alone with a madman, Jyss knew that she was adjusting to her duties as the King's aide. It would be a long time before she could find her way around the Palace, but the other guards were friendly and willing to help her out. There was a Junior Officer's parlour for her use, but due to lack of free time she had not seen it yet. Her superior officer Commander Sonchia was quite strict, but given the nature of Jyss' duties she did not see the older woman very often. Jyss had also met Captain Finessa, the woman who had replaced Betrys at the start of the rebellion. The Captain had seemed stressed during the few occasions Jyss had seen her, but the young Corporal could understand that.

A gentle knock sounded on the door, and Jyss sprang to her feet as a kindly-looking old woman carrying a tray entered the room. A servant. "Hello, dear," said the woman, eyes crinkling. "The Chancellor sent me."

"Oh. Right." Jyss let her hand relax from its grip on her sword. She gestured at the King, who was sprawled on the rich carpet. "I suppose you've seen this before?"

The woman placed her tray on a side table, clucking her tongue. "Yes, I'm sorry to say. Only a few of us, of course. The Court Doctor was sent to Ancelstierre, so those of us with some skill at healing do what we can." She selecting a large green bottle from her tray, uncorked it, and sniffed the contents.

"That's very kind of you," Jyss observed.

The servant gave a modest smile. "It's an honour, really. The King is the last surviving member of the Family, poor dear. His parents, siblings, and cousins were all killed during the Barbarian Invasion." She picked up the bottle, a towel, and a bowl of steaming water. "But the King is still young, and there is hope for recovery. Could you take down the diamond, please?"

Jyss blinked. "Oh, of course." Blushing at her forgetfulness, a well-aimed spell shattered the northern mark and the diamond went out.

As the old woman moved past Jyss, the young guard got a funny feeling in the base of her gut. A feeling that something bad was going to happen. "Wait," she said, reaching for the servant's arm.

The old woman spun around and flung the bowl of scalding water into her face. Jyss yelled in surprise and pain, and felt something slam into her body like a thousand icy knives. She was blasted full across the room, crashed into the wall, and slid down to the floor. Jyss gasped, completely winded, and wiped her smarting eyes. Her body ached all over from the magical attack, and she couldn't help reflecting that the King's protection spell had probably saved her from serious injury, if not death.

The King! Her vision was blurry, but Jyss could see the old woman crouched over Rothain – with a knife in her hand.

Somehow she staggered to her feet, clinging onto a wall-hanging for support. "Stop!" she shouted, and the old woman looked up. That was all the time Jyss needed to throw herself at the servant, knocking them both to the ground. The knife went skidding away across the floor.

Another sharp spell caused Jyss to recoil in pain and the old woman stood, grabbing the green glass bottle by the neck and smashing it on the back of a chair. Kneeling on the rich carpet, Jyss kept her eyes on the broken bottle as she cast about for something she could use to defend her King, and herself. Her wandering hand bumped into a footstool, and without a second though she snatched it up with both hands and threw it at the woman. The servant shrieked as she was knocked down yet again, but soon she was up, her knife held triumphantly aloft. With an exultant scream the old woman lunged for Rothain, who was lying prone and unprotected on the floor.

Without thinking Jyss flung up her arms and shouted a stream of Charter marks. There was a deep booming sound that shook the room, and the spell radiated from her hands like liquid fire. It engulfed the old woman, burning her, killing her instantly. Jyss lowered her hands which were blistered and smarting from the spell she had cast. By Rothain's side lay the servant's charred remains, still clutching the knife.

The door banged open and several guards ran in, stopping short at the scene. Jyss was vaguely aware of gasps and muffled oaths. She could very well imagine what they thought upon seeing her and the King in the midst of the wreckage, with a steaming pile of ash and bone.

The touch of a hand on her shoulder made Jyss flinch, but it was the Chancellor. He looked deeply shaken. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm. "What happened?"

"The old woman," said Jyss, still stunned by what she had just done. "The servant. She said you had sent her. I took down the diamond of protection, and she attacked."

She reached up to feel her scalded wet face, but the Chancellor caught her hand. "Don't touch it," he warned. "It's only a very minor burn. The healers can fix that up in an instant. And your hands." He looked to where some guards were tending the King, while others were examining what was left of the old woman. "A servant," he muttered, shaking his head. "She came close – much too close. You are to be commended, Jyss. You almost certainly saved the King's life."

Jyss managed a weak smile, though it hurt her face. With the Chancellor's assistance she got to her feet, her body still aching from the servant's spell. "May I excuse myself for a moment?" she asked. The Chancellor nodded and she cautiously made her way to the bathroom, wincing at every step.

Once inside Jyss carefully closed the door. Her hands were shaking. She clenched them once or twice, despite the pain, then managed to pour some water from the pitcher into the silver basin. She splashed it over her face, relishing the cool feeling on her scalded skin.

That woman. That sweet old woman. An assassin. The first person Jyss had ever killed. For the first time, the young Corporal realized the seriousness of her situation. Gasping, gulping, her heart pounding, she leaned on the counter, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. "Ohhhhh Charter..."

_A/N: You know, I don't think anyone is in a really good situation right now, but Jyss has her work cut out for her. Until next week!_


	8. Meeting in the Rain

_A/N: Now that Jyss has kicked some bad-guy ass, we're returning to the rebels. Enjoy!_

**Meeting in the Rain**

"_Red group, in the yard," the Sergeant hollered. "Line up for practice swords. White group, to the track. We're going for a run."_

_Ciprian thanked his lucky stars that he was in the red group, and joined the line. He watched Ghalio jog off with the rest of the white group, making a mental note to tease his cousin about it later._

_Another Sergeant was handing out the wooden swords. "Get into pairs," she barked. "Find an open spot. We're practicing blocking patterns three and four."_

_Ciprian accepted his practice weapon and looked around the yard. The other recruits were pairing up left and right. All of them seemed to know each other, and he found himself wishing that Ghalio had been in his group after all._

_A man of about his own age approached with a friendly smile. "Need a partner?"_

"_Thanks. I'm Ciprian." He stuck out his hand and grinned._

_The stranger shook it. "Madran."_

Ciprian strolled through the encampment. It was a grey, cloudy, sluggish afternoon that smelt of rain. The young Lieutenant's boots crunched on faded pine needles as he meandered between tents, tree stumps, and the charred remains of cooking fires. Passing through the front gate of the enclosure, he belatedly exchanged salutes and greetings with the soldiers, and then continued down the hill and into the woods. He was not afraid of attack; the rebels held all of this land, the territory was regularly patrolled, and the few inhabitants of the forest were sympathetic to their cause. Ciprian confidently headed east

Eventually he came to a bridge that spanned the Upper Ratterlin, a solid stone structure with guardhouses at either side. Ciprian remained in the trees and watched the soldiers who held the bridge. Four of them were feeding ale-soaked bread to the birds and laughing at the drunken flapping. They were getting lazy and undisciplined. But they were good men and women, really.

Ciprian stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat. The soldiers spun around and stood to attention, hastily dropping the bread and ale. "May I see the officer in charge?" Ciprian asked, careful to keep his expression neutral. As a Corporal he could perhaps have cracked a smile at the soldiers' antics, but not now.

A man sprinted off to fetch his superior while his companions remained stiffly at attention, studiously avoiding Ciprian's eyes. In a moment two figures returned over the bridge. The officer was jamming her helmet onto her head as she skidded to a stop in front of him. "Corporal Rael, sir," she said smartly.

Ciprian pursed his lips and nodded, letting his gaze run languidly over the ragtag group of soldiers gathered before of the bridge. "Anything to report, Corporal?"

"Just a visit from a farmer. Nicol, I think his name was. He brought some corn from his fields."

"Which will be delivered to the encampment, no doubt."

Corporal Rael straightened up even more, if that were possible. "Yes, sir." Ciprian knew that many soldiers kept the farmers' gifts of food and clothing, rather than turn them in. He had done it a few times himself. But now he was a Lieutenant, and had to enforce the rules.

"Very well. At ease," he added, and the soldiers relaxed marginally. "Corporal, I am extending my patrol today beyond the river. Look for my return later this afternoon."

Rael hid her surprise and gave another salute, and Ciprian passed over the bridge to where a road ran north and south along the bank of the Ratterlin. North would take him to the Clayr's Glacier and south would take him to High Bridge, but these were royal roads. In this part of the land it was possible to meet a patrol of Royal Guards. Along here most of the skirmishes between the two sides had taken place. Instead, Ciprian cut his own trail through the woods. Like his sister he was fond of the outdoors and could always find his way back, no matter how rough or inhospitable the country.

As a Lieutenant, Ciprian's duties did not include unaccompanied patrols outside of the encampment walls. In fact, such actions could be called dangerous and foolhardy. But Ciprian needed some time alone and away from the rest of the rebel force. He needed to ponder his situation. Betrys had made him her trusted second-in-command, yet he had mixed feelings about his promotion. Being a Lieutenant meant that he needed to believe in their cause. Although Betrys had explained her reasons, he was still not certain that this rebellion would solve the Kingdom's problems. Right now all it had brought them was a wretched stalemate.

Something tickled Ciprian's senses, a familiar magical call that took him a moment to place. Then he remembered, and smiled: Madran.

A rumble sounded in the distance and a soft cooling rain began to fall. Ciprian set off through the woods, muttering a Charter spell and sketching a mark with his finger, sending it off to alert his friend. Following each others' magical echoes, pushing their way through the moist underbrush, they soon met in a small clearing among the trees.

Madran looked much as he always had, his brown hair in a neat ponytail, his expression calm. A dark cloak partially covered his red and gold uniform. As the thunder rumbled again and the rain fell faster, the Ensign held out his hand. Ciprian strode forward and clasped it, and soon the two friends were embracing, laughing amidst the downpour.

"Charter, it's good to see you!" Ciprian exclaimed, pulling back and holding Madran by the shoulders.

His friend smiled. "You look different." He had to raise his voice to be heard above the drenching rain.

"Do I?" Ciprian spread his arms. "I've maintained _some_ appearance of a soldier – unlike Ghalio. He's got a beard now, can you believe that? But yes, I have forsaken my uniform for the garb of a woodsman. Charter forgive me."

"I meant _that_." Madran tapped the Lieutenant's badge on Ciprian's shoulder. "Now you outrank me!"

"It seems I do." Ciprian grinned, still elated by the arrival of his friend. "I can't believe you actually came! I suppose you are here to join us?" He punched Madran on the arm. "It'll be just like old times."

Madran flashed him a smile, but for a fraction of a second Ciprian saw something wrong. It hadn't been anything in his friend's words or manner. It hadn't been a trick of the rain. Rather, it had been a flicker of something behind Madran's eyes. Something resembling anxiety, or even fear. Slowly, casually, so as not to arouse suspicion, Ciprian drew back. "Let me look at you."

There was a certain spell he knew, one that was known only by the Bloodlines, and not every member at that. Most of the Clayr did not know it, he did not think Ghalio knew it, and Rothain probably had not learned it. Hiding his hand behind his back, he cast an intricate net of Charter marks, then suddenly flung up his hand to cast it – which Madran attempted too late to block. The spell struck the Ensign, causing a golden aura to flare up around him.

Ciprian's fists clenched and he breathed hard through his nose. "So you lied to me!" he snarled, hurt more than he could say by his friend's treachery. "You still carry the King's protection." The only other way to check for such protection was by casting a spell meant to kill. He hated Madran for bringing him so close to that. "I actually believed that you wanted to join us."

The other man looked back at him in wretched silence, unable to answer. The rain showered down, soaking them both to the skin. Then, swift as a cobra, the Ensign drew his sword.

Ciprian barely had enough time to draw his own weapon to block the blow. He staggered back into a tree, then hastily pushed himself off the smooth trunk to avoid another attack. In the middle of the clearing he turned and brought his sword up. Madran faced him. Slowly they circled, eyes locked, the rain streaming down their blades.

They had sparred many times in practice with wooden and steel weapons, but this was the first time that they had fought in earnest. Ciprian took a deep breath and moved in. Madran blocked the first two blows but off-balanced on the muddy ground, leaving his side open. Ciprian's blade slashed once along the thigh, then again across the back. Madran's cry of pain was lost among the rainfall.

They parted and circled again, Madran limping slightly. Ciprian clenched his jaw in determination. He forced himself to concentrate on his breathing, and the task at hand. He had always been the better swordsman, but that did not mean that he could relax his guard now.

He moved in, swiping low and then high, Madran managing to parry his strikes. Frustrated, Ciprian drove his shoulder into Madran's, causing the other man to stumble. He pulled back and lifted his sword to deliver a fatal blow, but Madran turned and blocked the blade in mid-air. Ciprian glared through their crossed steel as they pitted strength against strength, swords scraping against each other, Charter marks flaring angrily along the dripping blades. Finally, Ciprian gave an almighty shove and sent Madran's weapon flying between the trees. But before Ciprian could take advantage of this, Madran pulled back a fist and punched him square on the jaw. Ciprian fell back, gasping when Madran kicked his sword from his hand. He reached up and caught Madran's legs, pulling hard so that the other man crashed to the ground.

In an instant Ciprian was on him, striking every part of Madran's body that he could reach, beating him until blood poured out of his nose and mouth. Then Ciprian seized Madran by the throat, fingers slipping on the wet skin, and choked him until his struggles grew weaker and weaker. Finally, the other man went limp.

Ciprian crawled through the mud, snatched up his sword, and scrambled back to Madran's side. Panting heavily, he raised the weapon high above his head and glared down at the other man's battered face. His friend had done the unforgivable, lying to him and then attacking him. It was dishonourable. It was cowardly. And for that, he would have to die.

Ciprian flexed his fingers on the handle of his sword and blinked rain from his eyes. He did not know why he was hesitating. Madran had attacked him, so why was he experiencing this sudden weakness? And as Ciprian hovered in that moment of indecision, the other man opened his eyes. The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead and blood ran in pink rivulets down his cheeks. Madran blinked up at him, and there was no pleading in his gaze. There was acceptance, remorse, and worst of all confusion.

Seeing that raw emotion in his friend's eyes caused dark, hopeless confusion to crash over Ciprian as well. What had happened for him to be here, kneeling over his best friend with a naked sword in his hands? Everything was so terribly wrong. And Madran – his attack had been all wrong too. Yes, he had struck first, but afterwards he had been purely on the defensive. He had not cast any Charter spells. He had not even attempted to protect himself while Ciprian had battered him left and right.

The rebel Lieutenant stared down at Madran, whose normally-inscrutable countenance was now looking so hopelessly lost. They were both lost.

The rain was abating. Ciprian lowered his sword and sheathed it, and Madran closed his eyes and weakly turned his face away. Sinking gratefully into the golden warmth of the Charter, Ciprian drew up strings of marks for healing. He placed two fingers on Madran's throat and let the spells flow out of him, over the other man's skin and into his very pores. Ciprian directed the spells through his wounded friend's bloodstream. He felt the fractured ribs knitting. Flesh pulled together, closing cuts and slashes. Madran's nose mended and the bruises faded. When the marks ran out of his skin, taking infection away with them, Ciprian sat back.

Madran had still not opened his eyes. "Thank you," he muttered, barely audible above the pattering rain. "And… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Ciprian bowed his head, examining a buttercup that they had trampled during the fight. Even crushed into the mud it looked beautiful. Then the dark-haired man leaned over and pulled his friend into a sitting position. The bleak look on Madran's face was worrying him.

"What are we doing here, Ciprian?" asked Madran, avoiding his gaze.

The Lieutenant gave a half-shrug. "I do not know," he admitted. Madran was looking just as miserable as he felt. "I suppose you were ordered to infiltrate the camp using your ties to me?" he asked with forced calm.

His friend shot him an anguished look. "Yes."

The silence between them stretched. Ciprian was quite content to sit there in the rain, not speaking, not acknowledging what had been done, or what had changed between them. They were truly on opposite sides now, whatever that meant. It was only when Madran started to shiver that Ciprian spoke: "You had better return to Belisaere before someone finds you. Is your horse nearby?"

"Yes." The Lieutenant glanced at him as they got stiffly to their feet. "If you come with me," he said tentatively, "you would be pardoned."

Ciprian forced a smile and shook his dark and dripping head. "You know I couldn't do that, old friend. No more than you could abandon your King."

Madran nodded. He understood. He always had.

The Ensign started to walk away. "And Madran?" The man paused and turned at the edge of the clearing. "Say hello to my sister for me."

A brief smile. "I will." The Ensign's voice was uncharacteristically emotional. Pulling up his hood, he disappeared between the trees.

Ciprian yanked his sopping cloak more snugly around him, blowing rain from his lips. It had been so easy before. As Anthone's Corporal he had done what his superiors had ordered. He had left his home and his family, turning traitor to the Crown. That had been the easy part. Now he was a Lieutenant who had a cause to support. And what was their cause? An argument between the Captain and the King? For this he had drawn a weapon on his erstwhile brother-in-arms. For this he had abandoned those he loved, turned his back on his family, his _blood_ – for soldier or not he was a member of a Bloodline, and it was his duty to preserve the Charter. His treachery was worse than anyone's.

The young man bowed his head and trudged through the dripping woodlands. Back to the rebel encampment.


	9. Out of the Cage

_A/N: Now we're returning to Belisaere!_

_To the anonymous reviewer: I usually only reply to signed reviews, but I wanted to thank you for your constructive criticism, since you took the time to write it. You made a very good point about the structure of the previous chapter. Usually I decide what feelings I want to get across in a fic, and one of them for TPC is stagnation – the Kingdom is stuck in a nightmare situation. In retrospect, that's not the most exciting thing to convey! But some things are moving forward a little, as they will in this chapter. I hope you enjoy it, and if you leave a signed review I can reply properly to your thoughtful comments._

_I'll just take this opportunity to mention constructive criticism. I know that many readers are hesitant about giving constructive criticism, because some writers do not take it very well. However, one of the reasons that I post online – other than the wonderful fact that a few people actually enjoy reading what I write – is to get feedback. I am always looking to improve, so please do not hesitate to offer constructive criticism in my case. Now, on with the story!_

**Out of the Cage**

_Two Clayr were rolling up a tent in the middle of a plain. They secured the small bundle with ropes, and the shorter woman helped to lift it onto the back of the taller one. "Got it, Marin?"_

_The taller woman hitched the tent up higher on her back. "I think so, Illirae." She glanced at the sky and smiled. "It's going to be a sunny day."_

_Walking side by side over the plain, they headed northeast towards a distant range of snow-capped mountains. The two young women talked and joked, enjoying the wild solitude. There were few farms in the area due to the thin northern soil, but Marin was a Ranger and had no trouble finding water and game._

"_It'll be nice to return home," sighed Illirae. "A year in Estwael was quite enough."_

_Her companion Marin glanced at her sideways with a playful smile. "What's the first thing you will do when we get back to the Glacier?"_

"_That's a difficult question... I suppose I'll have a nice hot bath. _This_," Illirae lifted the tousled blonde locks that fell past her waist, "was driving me mad during our journey."_

"_I like it," Marin laughed, but suddenly she went absolutely still, and a watchful expression stole over her pointed features._

_Chills ran down Illirae's spine. "What's going on?" she whispered._

"_Listen." The Ranger's eyebrows were drawn together in concentration. "You hear that?"_

_And all of a sudden Illirae did hear it: The faint thunder of hooves. Her eyes locked with Marin's, and she was surprised by the panic on the Ranger's face. "Run!"_

_They raced over the plain like two hunted deer. Illirae's throat burned as she gulped the cold morning air into her lungs. Her legs were aching, and she kept her eyes on the ground; a single misstep could be fatal. Beside her Marin discarded their tent in order to run flat out. Illirae risked a glance over her shoulder, and her heart almost stopped: Pursuing them were no less than six barbarians, unmistakeable with their heavy furs and wicked-looking spears. They were mounted on rough-maned horses, and Illirae knew they would overtake her in seconds._

_Someone knocked her over, and the young Clayr had barely recovered her senses before she was caught and held kneeling between two barbarians. A third leered as he tangled his gloved hand in her hair, lifted a knife, and brutally slashed off her long golden tresses. But Illirae could only stare at Marin's lifeless form, at the blood spreading over the Ranger's clothes, and scream at her to move._

The palace gardens were considered among the most beautiful in the Kingdom, even after the barbarian invasion, but Illirae could find no delight in strolling down the cool shady lanes. Her gaze passed over vibrant flowers without noting their colour. Her fingers brushed the trunks of young saplings without interest. The quiet Clayr's solitary walks always eventually brought her to the gate surrounding Palace Hill, and confronted by those vertical bars, Illirae couldn't shake the feeling that she was trapped within a cage.

The young woman stopped and took a seat on a flat boulder by the side of a trickling stream. She had gone that morning to the Abhorsen and presented her case to him, pleading with him to free her. It had been the Abhorsen who had performed the magic to bind her to the King's service five years ago. But the Abhorsen had refused, remaining adamantly loyal to King Rothain.

"Is there room for one more?"

Illirae looked up to see a young woman with a tattoo on her skinny arm. The prisoner from her vision. The Clayr was surprised, but nodded and moved over.

The other woman perched on the rock beside her. "I'm Kelsa," she said with a friendly smile. "You were with the Chancellor when I was released. You're Illirae, aren't you? The Chancellor told me your vision saved me from being executed. Know what that means? I owe you my life." Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"I was only doing my duty," said Illirae, unable to hide the note of bitterness in her voice.

Kelsa looked at her curiously, but decided not to comment. "You've found a very peaceful place," she said, cheerfully kicking off her boots and dipping her feet into the stream.

Illirae couldn't help staring at the other woman. Gaunt and pale after five months in the dungeons, a bath and some new clothes had gone a long way in changing her appearance. She was no longer the wasted creature Illirae had seen in a darkened cell. Her brown hair had been woven into many slender braids, and her eyes were bright and lively.

"So how did you get here?" asked Kelsa, gently splashing the water with her toes.

"It's a long story."

"I like stories." The other woman grinned, and it made her look much younger. "My mother's people are Travellers, and I spent many a night listening to the elders telling tales. It would be nice to hear a story again."

The Clayr fidgeted with the fabric of her skirt, suddenly self-conscious. "Well, this one's true." She paused for a moment, wondering where to start, and then wondering why she was opening up to a stranger. Kelsa waited patiently. "When the barbarians took over Belisaere, I was at court in Estwael," she explained, drumming her fingers on the rock. "I stayed there for over a year until the fighting died down. I thought it safe to travel to the Clayr's Glacier. But I was wrong. They captured me and made me a slave, and my head was shorn." She sadly ran a hand through her hair. "It used to be below my waist." She thought of Marin, and bit her lip.

The other woman was looking at her sympathetically. "I can't imagine what you went through. But – you were set free?"

Illirae nodded. "I was in a dungeon in Sindle when the Royal Guards re-took that city. The King himself released me, and in gratitude I pledged my services to him for five years. The Abhorsen performed the binding." Her voice faltered. "I – I should have been set free some time ago – but the King – he wouldn't –"

Tears came to her eyes and Illirae, mortified, attempted to turn away. She felt Kelsa put a comforting arm around her, and her overwhelming gratitude for the other woman's kindness caused her to break down and cry. It had been a long time since anyone had shown her compassion so openly. Nestled within a shady grove of trees, sitting on the banks of a stream, they were hidden from the rest of the world. The Clayr sobbed onto Kelsa's shoulder, and the other woman lightly stroked her back. For a long time they did not speak.

Finally, Illirae straightened up and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Kelsa shook her head. "You've been through more pain than most people can imagine. You just want to go home." She was silent for a moment as Illirae regained control of herself.

"Of course, a Traveller like me has many homes," continued Kelsa as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Illirae appreciated it. Anything to take her mind off her own predicament. "My father has a cottage. Dagald the Archivist, an important man until the King banished the archivists from Belisaere. I spent most of my life with my mother's people, of the Black Hills Clan." She gestured at the intricate tattoo encircling her upper arm, and Illirae looked at it with interest. "I came to Belisaere in the spring to enter an archery competition, and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." Kelsa gave an ironic smile. "I was never an archivist but my father was, so apparently that made me a traitor. Before I knew what had happened I was imprisoned for trying to kill the King. Then you had a vision and now here I am." She made an expansive gesture with her gaunt hands.

Illirae cocked her head to the side. "Why don't you leave the palace if you are free? They imprisoned the Guard who had really fired the arrow that hit the King's diamond of protection."

The Traveller shrugged. "I know. I guess I'm not ready to go yet. I could try to find my Traveller band, but I'd like to visit my father too. His cottage is due west from where the Narrow Way joins Belisaere to the mainland, across the Upper Ratterlin." Kelsa's eyes became distant. "I remember visiting it as a child. It's a nice place, with a small vegetable garden and some fenced-off pasture for the cows. And there's a little wooden boat that you can take out on the creek to fish. I have lots of fond memories there, of roasting sausages on a bonfire under a starry sky."

The Clayr was struck by the other woman's unexpectedly poetic streak. "It sounds beautiful," she murmured. "I'd like to see it sometime." The two women smiled at each other.

The sound of approaching footsteps made Illirae instinctively tense her muscles. Kelsa noticed, and placed a comforting hand on her arm. They listened to the person's approach, until finally a figure dressed in blue walked around the bend in the path. Illirae relaxed. "Hello, Favilliel."

The Abhorsen-in-Waiting beamed. "I was looking for you." Her dark gaze turned to Illirae's companion.

"This is Kelsa," said the Clayr, and the two other women exchanged smiles. "Why were you looking for me?"

Favilliel glanced at Kelsa but didn't ask any questions, something that Illirae appreciated; somehow the younger woman had divined that Kelsa was considered trustworthy. "I want you to come with me." She glanced around the secluded grove and drew closer, and Illirae and Kelsa got up from their seat on the rock. "Listen," said the dark-haired woman in an undertone. "Madran and I are going to get you out of here." Illirae opened her mouth, but Favilliel interrupted her. "Everyone knows it isn't right that the King is still keeping you here, and we're going to do something about it."

She began to walk away, paused, and said over her shoulder, "Are you coming?"

Illirae's mouth had fallen open and she turned to Kelsa. The Traveller, incredibly, was grinning from ear to ear. "What are you waiting for?" she asked. "This is your chance."

The Clayr shook her head, looking from Kelsa to Favilliel and back again. "But I – I can't –"

"Yes you can," Kelsa said firmly. "And you will. And I'm coming with you." She looked over Illirae's shoulder at Favilliel. "When word of her escape gets out they'll be looking for one woman travelling alone."

Illirae allowed Kelsa to gently push her forward, and they followed the Abhorsen-in-Waiting through the gardens. Illirae's heart was pounding so hard that she could barely breathe. Her hands shook, so she clasped them in front of her, bowing her head as they passed a couple of guards. She couldn't believe that Favilliel and Madran were actually going to try to get her out of the palace. So many things could go wrong. They could get caught, or –

She jumped when Kelsa placed a thin hand on her shoulder. "Calm down," she whispered. Illirae forced a smile, and they continued on through the garden until they reached the rose garden.

Madran was waiting for them in a small space between the gate and the bushes. He had cast an intricate spell to bend open the bars, and smiled encouragingly at Illirae. "All set?" The Clayr gulped and nodded. The Ensign had temporarily been relieved of his duties, and apparently hadn't wasted any time in helping Favilliel. Illirae did not know the details, but Madran had left on assignment, and upon his return had been subjected to an extremely loud dressing-down from both the Abhorsen and Captain Finessa, one that had been overheard by half the palace.

"All right," said Favilliel, looking around. The rosebushes were particularly dense in this area of the gardens, and the chilly autumn morning ensured that few people were out. "My uncle bound you to serve the King, so I must undo his binding before you can leave. Madran will be our lookout."

The guard nodded. "Good luck," he said to Illirae before setting off.

Favilliel watched him go. "Illirae, I want you to relax."

The Clayr took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Immediately she felt a warm tingling all over her body. It was strange, but not uncomfortable. Beside her Kelsa gave a soft laugh. "Perhaps you'll get a chance to see my father's cottage after all."

Illirae turned to the other woman, and felt such a wonderful mixture of hope, happiness, and solemn gratitude that she thought her heart would burst. She watched as Favilliel selected the fifth bell on her bandolier. The ringing chime sent reverberations through her very bones. She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her, and stood up straighter than she had in five years.

"It is done," said Favilliel. She stooped and picked up a travelling pack and a cloak. "These are for you. Food, clothes, money, flint, tinder... I'm afraid I only packed for one."

"We'll manage," Kelsa reassured her.

"I also brought these." Favilliel held up a scabbarded sword, and a bow and quiver. "You can't be too careful travelling by yourselves. I didn't know which weapon you would prefer, so..."

Kelsa took the bow and slung the quiver comfortably on her back. Illirae awkwardly buckled the sword-belt over her white dress, covering both with the rough brown cloak and pulling the hood over her shorn head. She turned to the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. "How can I thank –"

A low whistle sounded, and Favilliel's head whipped around. "Madran's warning," she hissed between her teeth. "Go! Now!"

Illirae's hand was grabbed by Kelsa, and the two women ducked through the gap in the bars. The Clayr felt a gust of magic as the spell was released and the gate was restored to its former state. Kelsa immediately led her down the street towards the merchants packing away their wares. From behind them came several shouts, and the angry voice of Favilliel. Illirae paused, but Kelsa tugged at her hand. "We must go!" she implored. "I'm worried about her too, but we will only make Favilliel's sacrifice a waste if we are caught."

With a final glance at the palace gate, Illirae allowed herself to be pulled into the crowd.


	10. A Corporal's Duty

_A/N: You guessed it – we're back at the rebel encampment!_

**A Corporal's Duty**

_Two Corporals waited on horseback at the drawbridge of Lord Ivor's manor house, utterly bored. One turned to the other. "So, Ghalio. What do you think she'll look like?"_

_The younger Corporal shrugged. "I don't know, Padric."_

_The other officer, Padric, raised an eyebrow. "You're not even the slightest bit interested in what our King's bride-to-be will look like?"_

_Ghalio sighed. "Frankly I don't care. I didn't know my first mission as a Corporal of the Royal Guard was going to be playing messenger-boy for the Kingdom's future Queen."_

"_Somebody's feeling grumpy today," noted Padric mildly._

_The other Corporal ignored him. "Why is the Lieutenant taking so long?" he muttered, shifting in his saddle and turning his dark eyes up to the sky. "If we want to make the next posting by nightfall, he'd better hurry up."_

"_Well you're in luck," said Padric, motioning towards the gate. Ghalio looked up, and found himself momentarily speechless._

_Riding across the drawbridge beside Lieutenant Vansen was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair spilled out in rich black waves from under the hood of her cloak. As she and the Lieutenant drew level with them, Ghalio marvelled at her sparkling eyes, her delicate gloved hands. He was overcome with admiration and desire._

_Vansen's voice interrupted his reverie. "Lady Irabel," the Lieutenant was saying. "Corporals Padric and Ghalio will be accompanying us to Belisaere."_

_Ghalio managed a nod, but as Vansen and Lady Irabel rode on ahead, he knew that he had just laid eyes on the perfect woman. And that only happened once in a lifetime._

Striding through the encampment with his fists clenched tight, Ghalio paused by the wall and smashed his hand against one of the wooden posts. He cursed savagely under his breath, not caring if anyone saw or heard him. For letting Madran go free Ciprian had been _reprimanded_ – not even punished – and Ghalio was utterly furious. Allowing an enemy officer to slip away was thoughtless and stupid, and Betrys would have instantly demoted any other Lieutenant. Ciprian should at least have chopped off Madran's hands to revenge Vansen's treatment by the Royal Guard. But Ciprian was the Captain's new favourite, and it would take more than the usual mistakes to remove him from his station.

Ghalio walked on until he met with a thin cloaked figure standing outside of a tent. A reedy voice hailed him: "Evening, Corporal sir."

"Do you have it, Sino?"

Ghalio's Lancepesade passed him a dark bottle from under his cloak. "Sneaked it from the stores," the old man said, and a smile stretched his wrinkled face. "Sergeant Kier won't even notice it's gone."

"Just like the others," said Ghalio to his right-hand man. "Good work, Sino. Is he alone?"

"As always."

Assured on that point, Ghalio made his way towards the outskirts of the encampment, finally coming to a dilapidated little tent tucked into a corner separate from the rest of the rebel force. He rattled the tent-flap. "Lieutenant Vansen? It's Ghalio. May I come in?" He was answered by a muffled grunt and ducked inside.

Captain Betrys' second son was down on his knees, frantically rummaging through his belongings. Ghalio watched with a mixture of contempt and disgust as his previous commanding officer rolled a bottle towards him then pushed it away upon finding it empty. Ever since his demotion Vansen had been an outcast, wallowing in drink and self-pity. His little tent was about as neat as a pigsty, and smelt like one too. But Ghalio hitched a respectful and kind expression onto his face as he knelt beside the other man.

He pulled the bottle out from under his cloak. "Looking for this, Lieutenant?"

Vansen seized the bottle between the bandaged stumps of his arms, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and gulped at the wine as if it were water. Burgundy liquid dribbled down his unshaven chin. When at long last he removed the bottle from his lips, it was half-empty. "Thank you, Ghalio," he said hoarsely. "How'd you get it?"

"A farmer gave it to me when I was on patrol," lied Ghalio easily. "I managed to sneak it past Sergeant Kier. He doesn't suspect me." Ghalio had been bringing Vansen plenty of wine ever since the demotion. Drink had reduced the ex-Lieutenant to something pitiful, but it was what Vansen wanted, so in a way Ghalio was doing him a favour by bringing it to him.

The dark-haired Corporal pulled open the flap of the tent to air it out. "It's after dark, Lieutenant," he said reassuringly. "Nobody can see you." In the light of a smoky lantern he started to clear up the mess, shaking out the bedding and putting empty bottles in a sack to be disposed of properly. Vansen watched him with an air of gloom.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," said Vansen miserably.

"Call you what?"

"Lieutenant," the other man groaned. "It only serves to remind me of what I've lost." His gaze turned to the bandaged stumps of his hands, and Ghalio made a mental note to keep on calling Vansen by his former rank. "I can still feel them sometimes," said the other man quietly, "tingling or even burning, or nails digging into my palms. Drives me mad."

Ghalio looked at the other man out of the corner of his eye as he sorted through clothing to be washed. "Have you talked to Anthone about it?"

Vansen snorted. "Anthone! He's been trying to speak to me, but I don't want his pity. Besides, he's still a Lieutenant. An officer shouldn't waste time on someone like me."

"Is that what I'm doing then?" said Ghalio lightly. "Wasting time?"

A contrite expression flitted over Vansen's face. "I'm sorry, Ghalio. I appreciate your help, I really do. You were a good Corporal."

Ghalio finished straightening the tent and rinsed out two tin cups with water. "Then let us drink like friends," he said, reaching for the purloined bottle and pouring them each a measure. "Things have gotten worse since you were – well – _demoted_," he remarked, pretending not to notice Vansen's pained expression. "It's maddening to have to serve under my younger cousin."

"You have my sympathy," said the other man. "I wish to the Charter that you had replaced me instead of Ciprian."

"And I wish you'd never been demoted," Ghalio remarked, taking a sip of wine. Vansen winced at the word again, and drained his cup. Ghalio refilled it solicitously. "It really wasn't fair, sir," he said, hitching a sympathetic expression onto his face. "The way I see it, you were doing your duty. You were the only one in this entire stinking camp who had the guts to openly attack a Royal Guard patrol."

Vansen nestled the cup carefully between his bandaged wrists. "Yes, but look where that got me," he said bitterly. "Lieutenant Gamet really thought of a fitting punishment when he caught me. What can I do without my hands, Ghalio? I cannot wield a sword. I cannot cast Charter marks. I cannot even open a door!" Vansen lifted the cup to his lips and messily gulped down the wine. He sniffed and glanced at the half-filled bottle. "Can you get any more?"

"Of course I can," said Ghalio. "As much as you like." Vansen was too miserable to notice the scorn in his voice. The dark-haired Corporal silently watched the other man drink, every so often topping up his cup. Soon Vansen was red-eyed and swaying.

"You don' know how hard 'tis to have no hands," the ex-Lieutenant slurred. He dropped his cup and reached for it with a bandaged stump.

Ghalio picked it up for him. He cradled Vansen's head with one hand, and held the cup to his lips with the other. "All right, all right," he murmured as he helped the other man drink. "Take it easy. I know it must be tough without your hands. But I'll help you, Lieutenant."

Vansen pulled back violently, spilling the rest of the wine. "Don't call me Lieutenant!" he bellowed, falling back against the side of the tent.

Moving forward, Ghalio grabbed the other man by the shoulders and pulled him back up, ignoring his feeble struggles. "I'm sorry," he panted, grappling with Vansen who was drunk and half-wild. "I won't do it again. But – but I don't know why you're angry with _me_, Vansen – _I_ didn't cut off your hands!" The other man stopped thrashing about and slumped over, crying, and Ghalio felt another wave of contempt for the demoted officer. "You shouldn't be angry with me," he said firmly. "It's King Rothain who is the cause of all this."

Vansen wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Rothain?"

"Yes," Ghalio said encouragingly. "The King must be overthrown." He was not saying anything out of the ordinary. That type of treasonous talk had become commonplace among the rebels, and Ghalio was merely doing his part to spread it. Day by day he was sowing small seeds of revenge against the King, whom he hated. He didn't think anyone was aware of the extent of his loathing. Not even Sino, or Padric.

"It won't be too long now, either," said Ghalio confidently. He clapped Vansen on the back.

The other man nodded, looking determined for the first time that night. "You're right. My mother has powerful friends at court."

The Corporal's ears perked up. "Like who?" he asked casually.

"I don't know – Lord Ivor maybe. The Queen's father. He was very popular back when mother had that falling-out with the King. Probably still is."

"Lord Ivor..." Ghalio scratched his beard. A plan was starting to fall into place. "I've remained here long enough, Vansen. I ought to be going." He stood up and drew aside the tent flap. "I'll come back in a couple of days with more wine." He stepped out, taking the empty bottles and a bundle of laundry, and before he let the flap fall he couldn't resist adding, "Goodnight, _Lieutenant_."

Ghalio walked back through the encampment, his mind working quickly. King Rothain, Captain Betrys, Lord Ivor... It was finally all coming together. If he could only execute his plan the right way...

A footfall sounded behind him and Ghalio spun around. Bottles and laundry tumbled to the ground. Out flashed his knife as he pinned the other man against the palisade wall, bringing the blade up to his throat.

It was dark, so it took Ghalio a few moments to recognize Corporal Hallam, the idiot serving with him under Ciprian. The young officer gulped, and Ghalio gave him a stern look before lowering his knife and stepping back.

Hallam rubbed his neck. "I was warned not to sneak up on you," he said ruefully. "Guess I'll never make that mistake again."

"Reflexes from the barbarian invasion," Ghalio grunted. "Can't get rid of them. What do you want?"

"Captain Betrys would like to see you," said the other Corporal, still feeling his throat. When Ghalio looked at him suspiciously, he added "She wants to know how her son is doing, and thought you'd visit him tonight."

"Fine." The dark-haired Corporal nudged the bottles and laundry with his foot. "Take care of these, will you?" Before Hallam could answer, he turned and made his way to the Captain's tent on the other side of the encampment. Ghalio nodded at the soldier posted outside, waited for his name to be announced, and then entered. Betrys looked up from the map spread over her desk. "Good evening, Corporal." She motioned with her arm. "Take a seat." The Captain waited until he was settled. "You've seen Vansen?"

Ghalio nodded. "Just now. I visit him every few days."

Betrys took a breath and planted her fists on her desk. "Listen, Ghalio. I truly appreciate what you are doing for my son. I've been told that you are looking after him, and I wanted to let you know how grateful I am for that."

"He was my Lieutenant," said Ghalio flatly. He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I feel guilty for not being with him the day that... Well, maybe I could have talked him out of it."

Betrys gave a grim smile. "I'll tell you right now that nobody could have talked Vansen out of that attack. He was always stubborn." She sighed and gave Ghalio a look that was surprisingly vulnerable. "How is he?"

"Not too good," he confessed. "He's still depressed about his hands. And he's drinking."

The Captain shook her head. "I am sorry to hear it. I don't know where he gets the wine from. Perhaps you can look into it." Ghalio nodded, keeping his expression carefully neutral. "Vansen needs a friend right now," Betrys continued, "and you've been more than one to him. For that I thank you, and I trust that you will continue to keep an eye on him." At Ghalio's nod she waved her hand. "Dismissed, Corporal."

Ghalio stood and bowed, while inside he was boiling with rage. This woman had overlooked him in favour of Ciprian, and now she expected him to play babysitter to her deformed drunkard son? But he needed her and could use her, so for now he was going to bow and smile and follow orders like the good little soldier they all assumed him to be.


	11. Forging Connections

_A/N: I much appreciated the comments on Ghalio! He's evil, but I like him. Okay, now we're returning to the palace, where everyone's having such a great time around the King. Don't you love all this back-and-forth?_

**Forging Connections**

"_Do you want to know what it was like before the war?"_

_Jyss opened her mouth to say no, but her mother looked up from her knitting and shot her a warning glance. "Yes, father," she said obediently. It was a quiet evening at the inn, and the chores were all done. Their only customer had retired to his rooms, and the small family was spending the evening in front of a roaring fire._

_The innkeeper pulled his daughter onto the chair beside him. "You were only five when the war started with the barbarians. Before they came a woman, a child even, could walk down the street and be safe. And the merchant ships brought strange and delicious foods to our markets. Like corn. That used to be your favourite. Do you remember corn?"_

_The girl sat silently as her father rhapsodised about the time before the barbarian invasion._

"_One day the royal line will be restored," her father was saying. He gazed into the fire with misty eyes as if envisioning the future. "And then the Kingdom will return to its former glory."_

As soon as Jyss stepped into the Junior Officer's Parlour, Corporals Pheran and Sabel jumped up from their game of Merrills. "Finally!" Pheran exclaimed. Sabel moved to close the door behind Jyss and placed a rolled blanket along the bottom to muffle sound.

Jyss watched the others nervously. "What are you doing?"

"We want to talk to you," Sabel explained as she started to close the curtains on all of the windows.

"Me?" Jyss looked between the two Corporals in bewilderment. "I'm just here to get a mirror. The King –"

"The King can wait for his mirror," said Pheran. He was balancing on a chair to carefully plug one of the air shafts with a throw pillow. Once the room was completely soundproof and the curtains were drawn, the two Corporals sat down and motioned for Jyss to join them. She did, nervously.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," said Sabel with a grin. "We haven't seen you for weeks, Jyss. We're so impressed that the King hasn't tried to kill you yet. Remember Eamon?" She turned to Pheran. "Lasted less than a month. Luckily he had the King's protection spell."

"If you have something to say, could you please say it?" said Jyss anxiously. "If the King does not get his mirror, I have no idea what he will do to me. He already attacked the maid this morning for bringing him the wrong colour towels."

Pheran laughed softly. "Calm down, Jyss. From what Lieutenant Sonchia tells me, you don't have anything to worry about. The King seems to like you – comparatively. But yes, we will say what we have to say. Let's keep our voices down."

Sabel leaned forward, and the candles on the table illuminated her scarred face. "We all know that the King is... unbalanced. Don't worry," she added at Jyss' expression. "We're not speaking treason here. You won't be arrested. The thing is, we also know that there is trouble at court."

"Trouble?"

"The King hardly presides over court anymore," Pheran elaborated. "But Sabel and I, and others, have manned guard there. We... hear things."

"Lots of things." Sabel rubbed her forehead and glanced quickly at the door. They were speaking quietly, but this was still not a conversation to be had openly within the palace walls. "The nobles are not very happy with King Rothain, especially since the Abhorsen-in-Waiting was arrested." She shook her head in disbelief; the whole court had been stunned by the action. "Anyway, one in particular, Lord Ivor, has become very popular."

"Lord Ivor," Jyss repeated. "Wasn't he –?"

"The father of the Queen," Sabel confirmed. "He is also an old friend of our erstwhile Captain."

"Betrys?"

"The very same."

"Lord Ivor has many sympathizers due to his daughter's fate," Pheran remarked. "Lately he has become very outspoken. He doesn't question the King's ability to rule, but he expresses concern over the King's health, saying that his advisors are corrupt and are influencing him in making the wrong decisions. Of course that's an utter lie, but the courtiers will believe anything he says."

Sabel leaned forward. "Everyone is afraid that there could be an uprising, with Ivor and Betrys at the head. Belisaere is still weak as she rebuilds, and now Betrys is leading a rebellion which is becoming more popular by the day. And soon the Abhorsen-in-Waiting herself will be on trial."

"Okay, I agree with you," said Jyss, looking from face to face. "But what does all of this have to do with me?"

The Corporals exchanged glances. Pheran spoke first. "Well, you are the King's aide. And you haven't incurred his wrath... yet." Sabel winced, obviously recalling the fates of the other unlucky Corporals assigned to be the King's aides. "Also, he actually talks to you."

"So?" asked Jyss, becoming defensive.

"So, ever since you stopped that assassin you've forged a connection with him," Sabel argued. "It's dangerous to be in your shoes right now, Jyss. You are new here, and you do not know what people are capable of. A lot of important individuals are against the King, both within the palace and without, and you have his ear. We just want you to be aware of the situation, in case somebody tries to influence you."

Jyss nearly laughed at what they were suggesting, but deep down she knew that the other Corporals were telling the truth. Unimportant as she was, some people might try to take advantage of her. "All right," she said finally. "I'll be careful."

"Take care of yourself," warned Sabel.

Jyss nodded. As she stood and straightened her uniform, Pheran remarked, "By the way, there's a mirror on the mantelpiece."

Walking down the corridor with a silver-backed mirror tucked under her arm, Jyss reflected on what the other Corporals had told her. A part of her was still wondering why on earth people would think that _she_ could influence the King. He had spoken to her a few times, but today that had only amounted to "Bring me a mirror."

However, Jyss had to admit that there were moments when Rothain seemed almost normal around her, especially after she had killed that assassin. These were few and far between, but every now and then Jyss had seen a quietness come over the King, usually when they were left alone. He actually seemed to be aware of where he was, and when he spoke during those periods he was fairly rational. Perhaps this was what Sabel and Pheran had been talking about. Perhaps she did have some influence over him.

Jyss nodded at the guards posted outside the King's room and let herself in. As she closed the door discretely behind her she heard raised voices coming from the sitting-room. The young woman cracked open the door and froze when she realized what was happening: The King was sitting in a gilt chair by an enormous crackling fire. And the Chancellor, standing just outside of the diamond of protection, was yelling at the King. Jyss wasn't sure if she was even supposed to be there, so she hovered uncertainly with one hand on the door and the other cradling the mirror to her chest.

"Just _look_ at yourself!" Chancellor Oraz was shouting. "You never see anybody. You refuse to meet with the Abhorsen. You refuse to hold petty court." He paused to take a few wheezing breaths. "Your father would never do what you are doing," he said, shaking with fury. Jyss had never seen him so angry. "King Edrian would be ashamed of you. What is it that you think you are doing, Majesty? Why must you _always_ be surrounded by a diamond of protection, even here in the most private recesses of the palace?"

Jyss held her breath as she watched, waiting for the King's response.

Rothain raised his head. "You question my actions?"

"Yes," the Chancellor said with more bravery than Jyss would have had in his position. "I am doing this because I care about you, Majesty. I fear that you are losing the support of the people. And with the Abhorsen-in-Waiting's trial drawing near, you must –"

"_Must_?" the King roared, standing up. His pale hands clutched the arms of the chair and his entire body was trembling. "You overstep your place! I order you from my sight!"

After a long pause, the Chancellor bent his aged body into a bow. He turned and walked towards the door, giving Jyss a tight, reassuring smile as he passed. When he was gone, Jyss clutched the mirror closer to her body and took a few cautious steps into the room. The yellow firelight flickered over embroidered tapestries and gilt-framed portraits, giving the figures the illusion of movement. Although she had been in the King's personal chambers many times before, Jyss still found the effect sinister.

By the time Jyss reached the fireplace Rothain had sunk back into his seat, his face in one hand. He gave no indication of having noticed her, and after a minute or so she cleared her throat. "Majesty?"

The King glanced up at her, and in his eyes she saw a light of recognition. "Jyss." He knew her – a good sign.

"I brought you this." The young Corporal held out the mirror. Every other mirror in Rothain's chambers had been smashed.

Rothain nodded. "Give it to me."

Jyss shuffled her feet nervously. "Yes, Majesty. Ah – I will need to take down the diamond of protection."

The King granted permission with a wave of his hand, and Jyss sank into the golden light of the Charter. With a precisely-cast mark she dissolved the diamond. The King held out his pale and wasted hand for the mirror, and as she passed it to him Jyss reflected that she was one of the select few who had been let through the King's magical defences. Even the Abhorsen, who had been such a favourite of King Edrian's, could not make that boast.

Jyss watched as Rothain handled the mirror. "You are not like them."

She blinked; that comment had come from nowhere. The young Corporal was still uneasy – she always was when around Rothain – but she could not help noticing that he seemed different. Or maybe he was more himself. In any case, he appeared saner and more aware. He was certainly calmer than minutes ago when he had ordered the Chancellor from the throne room.

"How do I look?"

Another unexpected remark. Rothain was staring into the mirror. Even in the orange light of the fire Jyss could see that his face was white as curdled milk. The shadows under his eyes were deeper than ever, and a particularly large purple vein stood out on his left temple. He looked ghastly. "You look fine."

The King reached up with a shaking hand and rubbed his chin. "I need a shave." He absent-mindedly passed Jyss the mirror and looked around the room as if expecting to see something there. But they were alone. "Where is everyone?"

Jyss consciously forced herself to remain calm. "The Chancellor was here. You ordered him away." The King was acting very strangely, but he did not seem crazy. True, he was not projecting the image of a confident and powerful ruler, but this mild distraction was more reassuring than his usual insensibility.

"I ordered...?" He seemed genuinely puzzled. His pale eyes fixed upon one of the portraits in the room. "My father," he said, gesturing with a pale hand. "It is a rather good likeness of him. I wish he were here now."

Jyss was surprised by his candour. "I am certain he would be proud of you," she managed to say, trying not to remember the Chancellor's recent words on the subject.

The King gave a bitter laugh. "I do not think so. I've failed in my duty to beget –"

He broke off with a groan and bent forward in his chair, clutching his head in obvious pain. Jyss sprang forward and hovered over him uncertainly, wondering what she should do. "Majesty?" she asked, hopping from one foot to the other, reaching out but not daring to touch him. "What –"

"LEAVE!"

Jyss stumbled back. The mirror slipped from her grasp and crashed to the floor, splintering into a thousand pieces. A diamond of protection suddenly flared into life around the King's chair, barely missing her foot. Jyss gave the King a last agonized look before turning to flee the room.


	12. High Court

_A/N: Many of you picked up on the fact that Favilliel is in a spot of trouble right now, and we'll see some more of that in this chapter. On an unrelated side note, this has been one of the busiest weeks of my life! Two doctors' appointments, two meetings, one sleepover to supervise, one field trip to supervise, and grad photos being taken... Add to that some complications with a guy, and we have one messed-up week! Anyway, it's good to be back working on this story, and I hope you enjoy the latest instalment._

**High Court**

"_Your mother did not want you to come."_

_The young woman glared at her uncle through the rain. A single Charter mark floated above, lighting her pale face as she pushed her sopping black hair out of her eyes. "I know. That did not stop you from taking me."_

_The Abhorsen shrugged. "You gamble with your own life, and I will gamble with mine." After a short silence during which they continued to trudge determinedly up the hill, he added, "It's still dangerous. The Kingdom is full of the Dead, and Free Magic creatures. Necromancers have had the run of the place since the barbarians started killing Charter Mages."_

"_I know," said his apprentice, sharply. "But this is my duty. I wasn't going to let you leave me behind, especially since this is the first time I've left the House in seven years. The King has retaken Belisaere – that ought to count for something. Oh!" She tripped and fell, sinking up to her wrists in mud. Her Charter light went out. She glared up at the Abhorsen as she struggled back to her feet, daring him to say anything. He didn't._

_They continued on up the hill, burdened by swords and bells, two golden Charter lights floating through the driving storm._

Favilliel looked up at the Lieutenant's approach. The officer ran her stern gaze over the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and the guards standing on either side. "They are ready for you."

Nodding her head, Favilliel thought she glimpsed a flash of shame in the other woman's eyes. She forced a smile. "It's all right, Lieutenant Sonchia."

The officer's face hardened and she glared at the younger woman. "Take her in," she ordered.

Favilliel allowed herself to be steered towards the double-doors. When they were opened she almost froze on the threshold; the room was full to bursting, such as she had never seen since before the rebellion. The entire court was assembled in rows of chairs lining both sides of the vast marble room. Many nobles had returned to the city for her trial, and those who did not have a seat stood shoulder to shoulder behind the chairs, craning their heads for a glimpse.

The guards steered Favilliel down the central aisle. She could feel the eyes of everyone upon her, and though her hands were shaking she held her head high, as befitted an Abhorsen. Eight days in a prison cell would make anyone a little shabby, but she had done her best to make herself presentable. She was shown to a box and mounted the steps. There was no seat, so she stood in full view of the entire room, her pale hands gripping the railing. Even when battling the Dead in the midst of the wilds, Favilliel had never felt so alone.

"Let it be recorded that the accused has come before the High Court." Where the throne usually stood a large dais had been erected, holding three chairs behind a long table. The justiciar's bench. And occupying those chairs were Chancellor Oraz, Keeper of the Seal Tafline, and the Abhorsen, all dressed in black and white judicial robes. As a rule, a trial in the High Court was presided over by the Chief Justiciar, usually the Chancellor. Favilliel had heard of difficult or important cases that required two justiciars, but never three. She did not know whether to feel flattered or worried; maybe both.

"State your name and station." The Chancellor's voice was curiously cold and formal.

Favilliel licked her lips. "I am Favilliel, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting." The scribes seated below the dais scribbled away. On her right, the fifteen nobles who made up the jury watched in expectation.

The Keeper of the Seal unfurled an official-looking scroll and read aloud in a ringing voice: "The High Court of King Rothain hereby tries Favilliel, Abhorsen-in-Waiting, for the crime of high treason against the afore-named sovereign, for aiding and abetting in the escape of one Illirae of the Clayr against the express wishes of the King, and thus threatening the safety and security of the Crown." She released the bottom of the scroll and it rolled back upon itself with a snap.

The Chancellor folded his hands on the bench in front of him. "This court has heard from several credible witnesses, and has compiled evidence against the accused. All that remains is her testimony." He glanced down at the notes in front of him. "Favilliel, do you deny that eight days ago this evening you assisted the Clayr Illirae in escaping the Palace?"

"I do not."

There was an instant clamour as everyone starting talking at once, exclaiming to their neighbours over her admission of guilt. Favilliel kept her composure as Chancellor Oraz called for quiet. She did not dare look at her uncle.

When silence had more or less fallen once more, the Chancellor continued. "Do you deny that you cast an illegal Charter spell to bend the bars of the Palace gate and temporarily remove the protective magic?"

"I do not."

Another commotion, but this one died down more quickly as everyone seemed eager to watch the Abhorsen-in-Waiting talk herself onto the scaffold.

"And do you deny that you removed the spell binding the Clayr Illirae to serve the King, against clear orders to the contrary?"

Favilliel's mouth quirked into a bitter smile. "I do not."

As the court was thrown into an uproar, Favilliel scanned the crowd wedged in behind the seated courtiers, and spotted Madran. His face was pale and his jaw was clenched. Even at this distance she knew that he was furious. After helping Illirae and Kelsa escape, Favilliel had been caught by the guards. A look from her as she was marched away had kept Madran from revealing himself. She knew that he understood he would be no use to her if he was caught, but he clearly did not like her taking sole blame for their actions, especially the spell he had cast to open the bars.

The Keeper of the Seal, Tafline, held up her hands for silence. Whispering eagerly, the spectators settled down to watch the proceedings. "Having admitted so readily to the crimes with which you have been charged," said Tafline, "one wonders what your motivation was."

"That is easily answered," said Favilliel. "My motivation was to set Illirae free."

"The Clayr Illirae was no prisoner," Lady Tafline replied.

"That is your opinion."

Pandemonium broke out as lords and ladies began to jump to their feet, shouting at Favilliel and the justiciars, or arguing volubly with each other. The young woman gripped the railing in front of her even tighter, her entire body trembling as she strove to remain upright. She ignored the scandalized expression on Lady Tafline's face, and the enraged one on her uncle's, and instead shot a defiant stare at the Chancellor. As the tumult raged on around them, the old man gazed at Favilliel with an expression that held both admiration and sorrow. And that was all she needed to know that she was right.

Lady Tafline managed to restore order by pounding her hands on the bench. "It would please the court that all spectators remain seated and _quiet_ until we have finished questioning the accused." She glared around the room to make her point, took a deep breath, and carried on. "The Clayr Illirae resided at the court of Belisaere for five years. Freeing her, you may have given the rebels a valuable source of information. The question of your loyalty to the Kingdom must necessarily arise." She interlaced her fingers. "Your brother and cousin are traitors. I do not mean to insinuate that mere blood relations determine allegiance," she turned respectfully to the Abhorsen, who inclined his dark head, "but your actions suggest that, like them, you have taken the side of the rebels."

"I am not taking any sides," Favilliel declared. "In freeing Illirae from what I perceived to be undeserved captivity, I was doing the duty of an Abhorsen."

Her uncle leaned forward and spoke for the first time during her trial. The court was hushed as his deep booming voice rang out: "The duty of an Abhorsen is to serve the Crown."

In the ensuing silence, Favilliel politely shook her head. "With all due respect, uncle, I must disagree."

The Chancellor raised his arm, staving off any further interruptions by the spectators. "The accused has admitted to the crimes with which she has been charged. It falls to the jury to reach a verdict." He sounded resigned, and Favilliel knew that if there was some legal way he could get her out of this mess, he would. She felt a surge of gratitude towards the old man.

The fifteen lords and ladies elected by the court filed out to a back room. Favilliel remained standing in plain view of the spectators and justiciars, doing her utmost to remain calm. Illirae had escaped from Belisaere and the guards could not find her. So far nobody knew about Kelsa; they probably assumed that she had left the Palace of her own volition at some time. With any luck the two women would make it. The same couldn't be said for her.

Three verdicts were possible: guilty, not guilty, or not proven. The last was granted when there was insufficient evidence to prove the guilt of the accused, but Favilliel had openly admitted to her crimes. The dismissal of the jury to deliberate was merely procedure, and the young woman was left in no doubt as to the verdict, or the sentence. People found guilty of high treason were put to death. There was no appeal after the High Court's decision. The Royal prerogative of mercy alone could pardon traitors or offer them clemency, but given the King's current mental condition that was a highly improbable outcome.

The wait could not have been long, but to Favilliel it seemed the length of an age. Finally, the jurors filed back into the room, and the noise redoubled before almost immediately diminishing.

Chancellor Oraz turned to the jury. "Have you reached a verdict?"

The representative, who Favilliel recognized as the prominent Lord Ivor, got to his feet. "We have," he announced in a voice that carried throughout the room. The Chancellor motioned for him to continue. Lord Ivor cleared his throat and looked around impressively. "This jury hereby finds Favilliel, Abhorsen-in-Waiting, guilty of the crimes with which she has been accused."

Favilliel bowed her head and leaned on the railing. She hadn't expected anything else.

"But," Lord Ivor declared, raising his voice to be heard over the court, "this jury strongly recommends that the Abhorsen-in-Waiting be pardoned by the Crown, given her invaluable services over the years, and the fact that we believe she was acting in the best interests of the Kingdom."

It was quite some time before Lady Tafline was able to silence the court. For her part, Favilliel was absolutely stunned. She had never heard of a verdict like this before. The Chancellor and her uncle looked just as shocked as she felt.

"Lord Ivor," said the Keeper of the Seal once a semblance of order had been restored. "May I ask how great a majority of the jury reached this verdict?"

Ivor stood once more. "It was twelve to three, Lady Tafline."

Favilliel looked over at the jurors in wonder, and several of them smiled at her. She could only nod in thanks.

Meanwhile, the justiciars had been deliberating. By the look of it the argument was becoming rather heated, and at its conclusion Favilliel's uncle looked angrier than usual. The Chancellor stood, and silence fell once more. "This court has decided that the accused will be held in prison until such time that the King decides whether or not he will grant a royal pardon. Case dismissed."

Favilliel barely noticed the guards helping her down from her box, or escorting her out of the room and through the Palace to the dungeons. It was only when her cell door closed behind her that she became fully aware of her surroundings. She shook her head, and began pacing back and forth over the cold hard stones. She still couldn't believe the outcome; she had to think...

"I know you," cackled a voice from across the corridor. "You're Ghalio's cousin."

Favilliel stopped pacing and peered at the other prisoner, Lieutenant Padric. The jailer Corporal Tralon had informed her that Padric was awaiting execution for attempting to murder the King. But he had been given one of the nicer cells, like hers, because he was a bit unbalanced. He certainly looked mad.

"I know things about Ghalio that would make your hair curl," the man giggled. Favilliel ignored him. Everyone was going mad, it seemed.

She slammed her hand against the bars, then pulled back with a yelp as the protective spell stung her – the injustice in Belisaere was infuriating! Illirae's imprisonment had been wrong, as had Kelsa's. The archivists had been banished for writing so-called lies. The higher taxes imposed to rebuild Belisaere had still not been lowered. And the common people, unable to bring their petitions to the King, were being neglected.

Everything was coming to a head, with the rebellion, the dwindling court, and now with her own outright defiance. Her life was hanging in the balance, dependent on whether an insane King would be willing to grant her a pardon. Trapped in a cell she could do no more, but if she was to die – and it seemed all too likely – then she would die knowing that she had done all that she could.

She sat down at the small table, and lowered her head onto her arms. It would be impossible for her to sleep tonight. And across the hall, a madman laughed.


	13. By the Riverside

_A/N: Chapter thirteen, and with such an unlucky number you just know something bad is going to happen, right? Well, something bad has happened in almost all of my chapters, but still... Enjoy!_

**By the Riverside**

_As he stepped outside, the young man was unable to hold back an enormous smile: he had passed his officer examinations! He paused to admire his reflection in a barracks window, and had to admit that he cut a rather dashing figure in his red and gold uniform, with a new badge of office on his shoulder for everyone to see. Now he had to go to the stores for the rest of his kit, and prepare to leave for his new posting._

"_Ciprian!" The newly-promoted officer paused on the practice field and waited for his cousin to catch up. The other man's keen gaze instantly flashed to the badge on his shoulder. "Good for you on making Corporal," he remarked. "It's about time."_

_Ciprian grinned, brushing imaginary dust from his badge. "Are you going to miss giving me orders, Ghalio?"he asked as sweetly as he could._

_The other man shrugged, choosing to ignore the teasing. "Only a little. Now you can give orders of your own. Just don't enjoy it too much." They turned and walked together towards the stores. "Where have you been placed?" asked Ghalio._

"_Under Lieutenant Anthone," said Ciprian, a twinge of nervousness intruding on his high spirits. "I haven't met him yet."_

"_I've heard he's a good officer. A bit strict, but that'll be good for you – you never did set much store by the rules." Ciprian opened his mouth to protest, but Ghalio cut him off. "It's a good posting," he observed. "You'll be staying in Belisaere mostly. Lots of guard duty within the city walls. Not a lot of scouting."_

"_What's so bad about scouting?" asked Ciprian with wide-eyed innocence._

_Ghalio made a face. "Oh, I forgot," he said dryly. "You and your sister actually _like_ blundering around in the wilderness like savage animals."_

_Ciprian laughed as he reached for the doorknob of the storeroom. "I'll never forget the time you visited the Abhorsen's House, and we went fishing, and you got lost –"_

"_I was seven."_

"_No, _I_ was seven. You were eleven. I know you can get those numbers mixed up. Sir." Ciprian swiftly ducked his cousin's hand as it swiped at his head and, laughing, he slipped through the door and slammed it in Ghalio's face._

Ciprian watched as his cousin approached, moving deftly around the soldiers building fires and fishing in the river. He knew that Ghalio did not like scouting, but choosing between him and young Corporal Hallam for this reconnaissance mission had been all too easy. Nobody knew where Ghalio had been during the barbarian invasion: his village slaughtered, he had declined the invitation to stay at the Abhorsen's House, preferring to make his own way through the world. Ghalio never spoke about what had happened to him during those years. And by the time King Rothain had claimed the throne, Ciprian's cousin had become a skilled woodsman and a talented fighter, perhaps by necessity. People knew better than to sneak up on him unless they wanted a knife at their throat.

"Horses are all tethered," Ghalio reported, scaling the bank and flopping down beside Ciprian. Ghalio cracked his back, and the younger man winced at the sound. "The soldiers seem happy for the stop. Will we camp out here all day, Lieutenant?"

Ciprian was finally comfortable with being addressed by his new rank, but it still sounded strange coming from his older cousin. "Yes, we'll leave in the morning," he said, looking out over the rocky plains. Long ago the Ratterlin had been much higher, throwing up the immense boulders that now rested lonely on the wide grasslands. "It was tough riding, skirting all of those guard posts without being seen, and we may as well take advantage of our isolation."

The King's sending Madran to infiltrate their encampment had made Captain Betrys even more wary. Ciprian's small reconnaissance group was riding north up the Ratterlin to take note of the positions of the Royal guard patrols. Betrys wanted to know exactly where the enemy was. They had come pretty far north, and once they reached the foothills of the northern mountains they would turn back.

Ciprian felt his chin: he was in need of a shave. Upon leaving Belisaere Ghalio had grown a beard, but Ciprian still tried to look like a proper soldier. He turned to his cousin who, typically, was sharpening his knife. "I noticed before we left that you had stopped visiting Vansen. You two used to be good friends."

Ghalio paused, his fingers curling thoughtfully around the whetstone. "We were," he answered shortly. "But Vansen is a drunk, and determined not to listen to me."

A pang of guilt shot through Ciprian's breast. He hadn't been able to face Vansen since the other man's demotion. He was not responsible for Vansen's disobedience, but he would have liked to have come by his promotion some other way. He stared off across the plains as Ghalio continued to sharpen his knife, and the soldiers talked and laughed behind them.

On the grassy horizon a dark form emerged. Ciprian's muscles immediately tensed, and he squinted his eyes to get a better look. Before long he could distinguish two figures upon a horse. Ciprian touched Ghalio's shoulder and his cousin looked up, then waved at the ten men and women behind them for silence. As the horse came steadily closer, Ciprian noticed something about the person seated behind. A shorn golden head.

"Illirae," he breathed.

Ghalio, who had slid down the embankment, returned with the soldiers. They all lay on their stomachs to watch the horse's approach. Ciprian was certain that it was Illirae, and someone else – another woman. The area they were in was uninhabited, and the Clayr must have felt safe and hot under the noonday sun to allow the hood of her cloak to fall. Ciprian remembered that Illirae's term of service would have been up by now. Perhaps she was returning to the Glacier. After five years at court, she was certain to have information that Captain Betrys could use. And Ciprian still remembered the sharp reprimand he had received for letting Madran go.

Making a swift decision, he turned to his cousin. "The woman seated behind is the Clayr Illirae," he whispered. "She could have valuable information about the King and his court. I want them stopped, and taken – _unharmed_."

Ghalio nodded and relayed the message down the line, and Ciprian tried to ignore the gnawing of his conscience. He had known Illirae and liked her, but he was a Lieutenant now and had to do his duty. The most he could do was make sure that the Clayr was treated well.

The guards had positioned themselves along the embankment, and at a signal from Ghalio they sprang up and raised their hands, sketching marks of holding, binding, and securing. The spells were fired off in a dazzling golden volley – but the rider had seen them and swerved the horse. The spells missed and went sizzling through the air, startling the horse who reared and bolted. The two women tumbled from the saddle, and scrambled for cover behind some boulders.

"Quick!" said Ciprian, motioning with his arm. The guards started forward, but soon they were all diving for cover behind the riverbank as Illirae's companion fired arrows at them. Two of the men were hit – thankfully not mortal wounds. She was an amazing archer, even without the aid of Charter magic, and for the moment they were pinned down.

Beside Ciprian, Ghalio ducked as an arrow sailed overhead, narrowly missing them. "I suggest we kill the archer and take Illirae," he hissed in frustration.

"No," said Ciprian urgently. "I want to try something else first. Be ready to move."

Crouching low, he ran along the bank unseen and climbed up the side, emerging under the cover of dense undergrowth. He edged forward on his stomach through the grass, using the dips and hollows in the ground, taking advantage of every rock and bush. Finally he spotted the two women sheltering behind their boulder. He was close enough to hear their conversation.

"...looks like they're not coming out," the archer was saying. "You go on, and I'll catch up."

Illirae embraced the other woman, took a deep breath, and left the cover of the boulder, running north. Ciprian leapt to his feet, intent on stopping her, but found himself face-to-face with the archer. Her bowstring was drawn back to her ear.

As they looked at each other, the guards emerged from the embankment. Ciprian waved his hand at them. "Do not attack!" They froze, weapons drawn and lethal Charter spells sparkling between their fingers. Ciprian turned back to the archer. He noticed that she had only a few arrows left.

"You stay away from Illirae," she said through gritted teeth. Her cheeks were hollow and she had a half-starved look about her, but her hands were steady as she aimed the arrow at his head.

The Lieutenant held out his hands disarmingly. "I know Illirae," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "I just want to ask her some questions." The archer snorted and did not lower her bow. "Let me by," said Ciprian, keeping his voice calm but firm.

The woman gave a grim smile. "No."

Quick as a flash, Ciprian raised his hand to cast a swift spell – and the archer put an arrow through his palm.

Seeing the woman shoot at their Lieutenant, the guards mercilessly retaliated. Weapons held in check were let loose, and half-sketched spells blazed forth from the hands of their casters. "Stop!" Ciprian yelled, but it was too late.

He was dimly aware of Ghalio sending some of the guards after Illirae, but he remained staring down at the crumpled body of the archer. A brave woman. The clan tattoo on her arm marked her as a Traveller, and Ciprian wondered what she had been doing in the company of Illirae.

The young man sank down beside the dead archer, thinking how wrong it all was. He had tried to do his duty, but had ended up making things much worse. "What am I doing?" he whispered to himself.

"What's that?" Ciprian looked up at his cousin, and did not answer. Ghalio regarded him curiously but did not ask any more questions. "Let me see your hand."

The awareness of the injury brought the pain roaring into existence, and tears stung Ciprian's eyes as his cousin broke and removed the arrow. "What are we doing here?" Ciprian asked as Ghalio deftly healed his wound with magic. "Am I the only one who feels so confused?"

His cousin did not glance up from the injured hand. "Why are you confused?"

"This." Ciprian motioned at the dead archer's body. "I did not want her to die. She wasn't a bad person."

"You were doing your duty," said Ghalio simply. "We all were."

"Yes, but are we even right?" Ciprian had never voiced his doubts to anyone before, and he gazed at his cousin imploringly, waiting for an answer.

When Ghalio spoke, his voice was measured and careful, as if he were reciting something by memory. "In the end, it doesn't matter if we are right. We follow orders. Obeying those orders sometimes means that innocent people will be hurt, but it's what we've been trained to do." He looked up from the hand, which was now whole and free from scarring. "You shouldn't worry about being right. The question you should be asking yourself is if you trust Captain Betrys. Do you?"

Ciprian bowed his head in thought. "Yes," he said finally. "I do."

His cousin clapped him on the shoulder. "That's it, then. Don't worry about it." It was good advice from one soldier to another, but Ciprian was still disturbed by Ghalio's refusal to discuss the moral problem. And if his own cousin wouldn't, then who would? There was no sympathy to be found in the rebel camp; he'd have to wrestle with this alone.

Ghalio helped him to his feet, and Ciprian smiled and flexed his healed hand. "Thank you." They looked down at the body of the archer, and Ciprian sobered. "See that she is buried, and have her grave marked."

As they walked back to the river four guards came jogging towards them. "Lancepesade Thela, report," said Ghalio.

Thela stood to attention. "Sir, the Clayr escaped. She managed to recapture her horse and rode across the river. Used some Charter magic to defend herself, too."

Ghalio turned to Ciprian. "We could saddle the horses and pursue, Lieutenant."

Ciprian gathered himself with an effort, and shook his head. "Out in the open, we would risk being spotted by the Royal guards. Our primary mission was reconnaissance, and Illirae poses no threat to us."

"Unless she runs into a patrol and notifies them of our position," Ghalio pointed out.

Ciprian nodded. "Which is why we are going to strike camp and continue on our way." He noticed the soldiers' faces fall. A rest and a hot meal would have to wait. As they made their way back to the river, Ciprian dwelt on Illirae's escape. Somehow the Clayr had gotten away, and he did not know whether to be happy about it or not.

_A/N: I should probably have included information about the Abhorsen's family earlier, but better late than never, right? Here's what we have so far on those relationships: The Abhorsen Thorael is unmarried and has no children. Ghalio's father was the Abhorsen's brother, and Ghalio's parents are dead. Favilliel and Ciprian's mother is the Abhorsen's sister, and she is presumably living at the Abhorsen's house._

_Also, if you were curious about the characters' ages: Jyss (22), Rothain (23), Ciprian (24), Favilliel (25), Madran (25), Ghalio (28), Illirae (31), Vansen (33), Anthone (36), Thorael (52), Betrys (61), Oraz (70). Did I miss anyone?_


	14. Palace Talk

_A/N: Er... sorry, guys. Believe it or not, I liked Kelsa too. But this story is about civil war, so it can't be all happiness and rainbows. And now we're back at court, where our poor Chancellor could definitely use some happiness and rainbows!_

**Palace Talk**

_The old man nodded at the guards as they opened the door to the King's study. "Your Majesty," he murmured as he deposited a large stack of envelopes on the massive desk._

_The young man set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. "What's this, Chancellor? More correspondence?"_

_The Chancellor bowed his grey head. "The congratulations are still coming in."_

"_I suppose I should personally answer them all," said the King ruefully. He ran an ink-stained hand distractedly through his hair. "Shall we use the usual messages of thanks? There ought to be some copies nearby..."_

_Chancellor Oraz sorted through the papers on the desk and unearthed a stack of notes handwritten by the palace scribes. "I have them here." They settled down companionably to go through the messages, the Chancellor addressing each one and the King adding his signature and seal._

"_Can't the Kingdom just send one large congratulatory message?" the young man grumbled good-naturedly._

"_I suppose not," smiled the Chancellor. "You've captured the imagination of the people. This rebuilding nation was in need of a little romance. Everyone was quite taken with the idea of a King of twenty years, a conquering hero, marrying a beautiful young lady."_

_The young man laughed, and lapsed into a smiling silence. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"_

"_Yes," said the Chancellor. "And a true Queen."_

Chancellor Oraz stood alone by a tall arched window. The court was back to its usual sad state of near-emptiness. Many of the nobles had left court since the rebellion had started, fearing that the rebels would attack Belisaere any minute. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting's trial had drawn many of them back, but only temporarily. Now within the vast hall, only small isolated clumps of people conversed: the court was still abuzz with talk of Favilliel's trial. In all of the Chancellor's long years serving the Kingdom, and within his vast knowledge of history and judicial proceedings, he had never once heard of a trial where the jury had found a traitor guilty of high treason and had recommended a pardon. Then again, there never had been a rebellion on this scale against a ruler before.

His fists clenched in reflex, a sign of frustration. For his part, Chancellor Oraz believed that what Favilliel had done was right and exceptionally courageous. And for that, she was now sitting in the dungeons with her very life hanging in the balance. Oraz's desperate attempts to elicit a pardon from the King had been useless. Rothain had not shown any interest in the matter, and so the Chancellor had used this indifference to stave off Favilliel's execution by claiming that the King was giving the matter serious consideration. It was an obvious lie, but everyone was willing to bend the rules in this case. Maybe if he could not get Favilliel a royal pardon, he could use Rothain's lack of interest to keep her alive until this whole mess was sorted out.

The Chancellor bowed his head sadly, reflecting on the state of things. He wished that Favilliel had not been caught. He wished that Rothain had let the Clayr Illirae go free when her service was over. He wished that the falling-out with the archivists had never happened. He wished that Rothain was still the man he had once been, before he had become suspicious of his Queen. That was when everything had started to go terribly wrong.

Footsteps struck against the cold marble floor, and the Chancellor turned to see a half-dozen Lords and Ladies approaching him. At their head was Lord Ivor, father of the late Queen and close friend of the traitor Betrys. The lord's once-black hair had turned grey overnight when he had heard of his daughter's execution. The man must have been nearly sixty, but his broad shoulders and strong chin gave an impression of great dignity and power. Oraz could see why people followed him. The jury at Favilliel's trial had followed him, and for that Oraz was grateful, but right now the effect was intimidating. Lord Ivor represented the dissatisfaction of the court, and Oraz represented the King. The Chancellor gave a minute smile; a confrontation between them had been inevitable.

"Lord Chancellor." Ivor executed a polite bow. "May we have a word?"

Oraz had been about to leave for a meeting with the Abhorsen and Captain Finessa, but that could wait. He spread his arms. "Do I have a choice?"

The nobles forced polite, strained laughter. Ivor merely smiled. "We will not take up too much of your time." He glanced around the room to ensure that nobody else was within earshot. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice. "Chancellor, we are concerned about… the King's health."

"How very considerate of you."

Lord Ivor inclined his head. "Thank you. I was not, however, thinking solely of the King. The welfare of the Kingdom is of much greater importance. Do you not agree?"

Chancellor Oraz kept his expression carefully neutral. "A Kingdom cannot exist without a ruler."

"Of course," said the other man. "I agree, there must be someone to administer state business. To manage things. Quite. But lately, that person has become – not the King himself – but you, Chancellor."

"I admit I carry out state business on the King's behalf," Oraz replied mildly.

"Let us not mince words," said Lord Ivor in a harsh whisper. "We both know that the King is mad. _You_ are actually running the Kingdom."

Oraz let the silence hang between them. One or two of Ivor's companions shifted uncomfortably. "Careful, Ivor," he warned, scarcely moving his lips. "You are speaking treason."

The other man waved his hand. "Belisaere is crumbling," he said bluntly. "The Kingdom is split and the people are afraid. Whispers abound both within court and without. Many people are imprisoned for voicing the truth – the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, for example. And innocents are murdered. Like my daughter." Ivor's gaze hardened in memory, and the Chancellor found it difficult to meet the other man's eyes. The lord continued: "The common people need to be heard. Taxes haven't been lowered since the barbarians were driven out."

"There are some things," the Chancellor interrupted, raising one hand, "that I do not have the power to do."

"Not in the current government."

Chancellor Oraz stared at Lord Ivor. Would he actually dare?

Ivor drew closer. "Here is what you will do," he said, his voice barely audible. "You will announce that the King is unfit to rule, and move to depose him. We would have approached Bremin, who as Court Doctor also had that power, but he was sent quietly to Ancelstierre two years ago. Only you hold that power now, Chancellor. You make the announcement, and we shall do the rest of the work. Belisaere will be the great city it once was before the barbarian invasions, and before a child was handed the throne on a platter. If you do this, you will be performing a tremendous service for the Kingdom, and your actions will not go unrewarded."

The Chancellor glanced over the assembled Lords and Ladies. He knew them all. They were good men and women, loyal to the Kingdom and concerned with its welfare. He had no doubt that they would do all they promised. Here was his chance to see that the common people suffered no more. It was more than tempting. It was a way out.

But an old allegiance would always hold him back. He lowered his head and took a deep breath. "You honour me," he said slowly, "but I cannot accept your offer." The nobles glanced at each other, muttering among themselves. The Chancellor ignored them and gazed steadily at Lord Ivor. "I will not turn you in for treason as I ought, because I realize that your intentions are noble. But from now on we are on opposite sides. You see, I was once loyal to King Rothain's father, the great King Edrian. And call me a traditional old fool, but I will remain loyal to the Crown."

He moved to walk past them, and one of the noblemen grabbed his arm, arresting his progress. "I would not be so quick to walk away," he muttered. "An old man can have accidents."

"Lord Goron," Ivor said angrily, and the Chancellor was released.

With great dignity, Oraz passed through the nobles and left them staring after him. He walked calmly to the door of the room and nodded at the guards who bowed him through. Beneath his serene exterior his heart was rattling against his ribcage. He had finally made his position clear, and now he could not turn back. His chosen path lay before him, and although he did not know where it would lead, he would walk it without any more hesitation.

The Chancellor finally came to the door of the chambers used by the Abhorsen whenever he visited. The sparse furnishings were a stark contrast to the comfort and luxury of the rest of the Palace, but Abhorsen Thorael preferred it that way. Oraz found the Abhorsen and Captain Finessa seated at a table, deep in conversation.

"Chancellor," said the Abhorsen, nodding his dark head. "We were wondering where you had been."

"I apologize for the delay," said the Chancellor, taking a vacant chair. "I was held up in court by Lord Ivor." The faces of the other two showed interest. "He and his followers approached me to assist in a coup," Oraz explained in an undertone. "They wished me to pronounce the King unfit to rule."

"Traitors!" the Abhorsen hissed, an angry look on his pale face as he half-rose from his chair.

Chancellor Oraz shrugged. "Technically, yes. But their intentions are good."

"Should we be worrying about them?" asked Captain Finessa, practical as ever.

"Not quite yet. They will want to do things legally, if I know Lord Ivor. I've delayed him for now by refusing to aid in a deposition. Also…" he paused, then plunged ahead. "I am not certain that charging Ivor would be beneficial to our side. It would drag all of the discontent with the King out into the open. For now, we should just keep an eye on them."

"Agreed," said the Abhorsen. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Now let's get to the purpose of this meeting and look at how the King stands. Rothain's hold over the Kingdom is crumbling. Yes?" He looked around the table for confirmation. "Only a few nobles are left at court, and many of them are in Lord Ivor's camp. And the business with Madran that failed so completely looks bad for us. Things are beginning to stir." The Chancellor noticed that the Abhorsen did not mention Favilliel's trial and imprisonment. Oraz and Captain Finessa had made a tacit agreement not to mention Thorael's niece while around the man; he could be rather touchy when it came to family.

The Captain of the Guard leaned forward, placing her hands on the table. "We need the King to _act_. This incessant waiting is grating on everyone. The rebels have the sympathies of many citizens and can hold out for years gathering support if they want to. We cannot have the King sitting here and doing nothing."

"What would you have him do?" asked the Chancellor politely.

Captain Finessa slammed her fist on the table. "I would have him attack Betrys!"

"Or," Chancellor Oraz countered, "we could have him win back the support of the people. I would prefer we try that before waging open war. We should exhaust all options before attacking Betrys. It would be nothing short of a bloody catastrophe."

Captain Finessa bowed her fair head. "Of course. It would be a difficult battle, with devastating losses on both sides. It is not certain that we would even win." She sighed. "But we cannot stave off civil war and just wait for the King to come to his senses. How is he to win the people over?"

"We shall have him take small steps," said the Chancellor.

The Abhorsen was looking thoughtful. "I am reluctant to enter open war. And I agree that the King must be more accessible, more sympathetic. The people are losing confidence in him."

"There are many popular petitions," Chancellor Oraz observed. "If only _he_ could hear them instead of me. All it requires is to sit in the throne, and I can handle the particulars. If the King agreed to grant audiences, it would go a long way towards enhancing his reputation. I have tried to tell him this many times, but he does not listen to me."

For a moment they were all silent as they wondered how they would get the reclusive Rothain to agree to listen to some popular petitions. Finally, Captain Finessa snapped her fingers. "I've got it!" She looked at the two men eagerly. "Do you know the young Corporal who is the King's new personal aide?"

The Abhorsen nodded. "What was her name… Jess?"

"Jyss," Finessa corrected him. "Lieutenant Sonchia tells me that the young woman is making progress with the King. He actually talks to her."

"What does he talk about?" asked the Abhorsen, astonished. It still somewhat baffled him that Rothain absolutely refused to see him.

The Captain waved her hand. "I have no idea. Nothing, really. What's important is, the King appears to be warming to her. And Jyss really is becoming indispensable to him. Once when she ran an errand and was missing when he wanted her, he... threw a tantrum."

The Abhorsen winced, and the Chancellor privately agreed – he could only imagine what Rothain 'throwing a tantrum' would look like.

"All right then," said the Chancellor, clasping his wrinkled hands. "Captain, you will issue Corporal Jyss with her new orders." A weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders, and indeed the others appeared more at ease.

With the decision made, and the possibility that they would actually be able to get through to Rothain, Chancellor Oraz felt a sense of renewed hope. Perhaps somewhere they could find a cure for whatever had poisoned the King's brain. He remembered Rothain before his descent into madness over the alleged infidelity of the Queen. A young man and a competent ruler, who had been well-loved by his people. And if all went well, Oraz would live to see that young man again.


	15. Home of the Archivist

_A/N: So we've seen the rebels and the palace. Now it's time to see what our Clayr is up to. Enjoy!_

**Home of the Archivist**

_The young woman paused before a door. She hurriedly checked her appearance in a small looking-glass on the wall, smoothed down her hair, and knocked._

"_Enter."_

_She walked through the door and into a parlour room decorated in pink and gold. A young lady dressed in the height of fashion looked up from her book, marking the page with a ribbon. "Illirae," she greeted, smiling and beckoning. "Do sit down."_

_The Clayr nervously sank onto a cushioned chair. She did not know what to do with her hands, so she ended up folding them in her lap. "You asked to see me, Lady Helise?"_

"_Yes," said the other woman. She reached for a glass flagon. "Some wine perhaps?" She delicately poured two glasses, paying no heed to Illirae's stammering reply. "I wished to welcome you personally to court. And I must admit, Illirae – may I call you Illirae? – I am quite curious about you. As are all the courtiers – you should hear the rumours."_

"_Rumours?" Illirae repeated blankly._

_Lady Helise gave a mischievous smile. "It is not every day that the King returns from battle with a young lady. Oh, nothing like that," she laughed at Illirae's shocked expression. "But you were present at the Battle of the Mountains and the signing of the treaty with the barbarian lordlings. Were you perhaps part of the treaty?"_

"_Not exactly," Illirae mumbled. To cover her confusion she took a sip of wine. She was not accustomed to being the center of attention, and certainly not from an eminent young lady like Helise. "The truth is, I was a prisoner," she confessed. "The King released me, and I offered him my services, such as they are."_

"_Such as they are?" Helise repeated. "But you are one of the Clayr! They haven't been in Belisaere since the start of the invasion." She regarded the fair-haired woman with sympathy. "I suppose you miss the Glacier?"_

"_Yes," Illirae confessed. Her thoughts fleetingly turned to Marin, her companion in her travels. Marin, who had been killed by the barbarians. "But I am grateful to the King. And everyone here is so kind to me."_

_Helise took Illirae's hand. "I am glad to hear it. And I am absolutely certain that you will enjoy living here at court. Five years will go by –" she snapped her fingers "– like that!"_

Travelling north under the open air, Illirae found herself relishing the rare feeling of freedom. It had taken a long time to find an unguarded bridge to cross the Ratterlin. She had travelled north along the bank of the river, staying well away from the main roads. It was five years since she been outside of the Palace unaccompanied. Five years since she had seen such an uninhabited wilderness. The change was both exciting and frightening after her lengthy incarceration, and yet beneath her exhilaration lurked a dark sorrow. She could not stop thinking about the death of Kelsa, whom she had come to love and admire during their journey together.

She remembered dashing over the plains, lungs and legs burning, listening to the shouts of the conflict behind her. She remembered looking back to see Kelsa with her bow drawn, facing down a dark-haired man. She remembered the arrow being loosed, a surge of magic, and Kelsa falling lifelessly to the ground. And she remembered being pursued, running up to the horse and scrambling into the saddle, nearly losing her balance in her blind panic. As the rebels chased her over the plains, she could not help but remember her capture by the northern barbarians years ago. Another loved one, Marin, had died then. She had found solace with Helise, but not until meeting Kelsa had she felt so at peace. Kelsa, who had given her life so that she could be free.

Illirae bowed her fair head, and salty tears dripped off the end of her nose and onto the horse's mane. Marin had been killed by the barbarians, and had been a casualty of war. But Kelsa had been killed by Kindom citizens, rebels. Illirae had harboured rebel sympathies during her imprisonment at court, but now she had cause to hate both sides. Free to return to the Glacier, she would have liked nothing more than to forget the past, but Illirae knew that the Clayr had been evading the conflict for far too long. She was going to put an end to their foolish neutrality. Kelsa's death had shown her that far worse was in store for the Kingdom unless the Bloodlines did something about it, and right now the Clayr were the only ones who had the numbers to do it. But before even that, there was someone she had to visit.

Illirae clung to the trotting horse's reins, gritting her teeth as every step bumped her aching backside against the saddle. As a rule the Clayr did not travel by horseback, but in their short time together Kelsa had showed her a thing or two about riding. She still wasn't very good, but these were desperate times and it was faster than walking.

The first sign that she was nearing her destination was the appearance of a footpath meandering from the far bank of a creek through some dense berry bushes. Illirae urged the horse across the water. The path eventually led out of the undergrowth, and Illirae's searching eyes espied a cottage on the bank of a stream. A wooden rowboat was moored in the water, there was a vegetable garden, and three white cows grazed in a fenced-off pasture. It was exactly as Kelsa had described it.

A man was chopping wood and stacking it against the cottage. He glanced up at her approach and leaned on his axe, wiping his brow with the back of his sun-browned arm. Illirae was very conscious of his curious gaze as she performed a shaky dismount.

"Hello," she said, leading the horse towards the cottage. "Are you Dagald?"

The man gave a friendly grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Perhaps. Who is asking?" The cultured tone of his voice jarred with his rustic appearance.

"I am Illirae of the Clayr," she said, lowering her hood. "I am – I was a friend of Kelsa's."

The man's jaw dropped. "Kelsa?" he repeated incredulously. "Really? Well, please come in." He took the horse's reins and bound them to a post. "Make yourself at home," he added as Illirae stepped through the door.

The cottage was a pleasant, simple place with little ornament – except for the stacks of books, piles of scrolls, and sheaves of parchment resting against an entire wall. "Have a seat," the man urged, pulling out some clay mugs. "A little water perhaps? Milk? Or some wine?"

"Water is fine," said Illirae awkwardly. She fidgeted with the edge of her cloak as the man poured drinks and sat across from her at the hand-carved table.

"Yes, I am Dagald," the man confirmed, eyes twinkling. "So you know Kelsa?"

"I _knew_ Kelsa," Illirae corrected him. She glanced into her cup to avoid his eager gaze. This man was hoping for some news about a daughter he hadn't seen in years. "I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but Kelsa... she was k- killed nine days ago." Dagald's mouth was slightly open, and he stared at her in a quizzical way as if convinced that he had misunderstood. "I met her at the Palace while I was a prisoner, and she helped me escape," Illirae continued, determined to get it all out before she became too upset to go on. "We were fleeing together, and met some rebels. They were probably after me, you see, for information – because I'd spent so much time at court. Kelsa urged me to go on, and she stayed behind to face them with only her bow, and –" Illirae's voice stuck in her throat and she bit her lip, tears brimming in her eyes.

Dagald was staring at the tabletop without seeing it. He finally let out a long, heavy sigh. "I am... sorry to hear this," he murmured. "Kelsa's mother was a Traveller and I did not see them very often. But I loved Kelsa. She was such a bright little thing, always smiling." He looked frankly into Illirae's eyes. "I thank you for coming all this way to tell me."

The Clayr shifted in her chair. "Actually, that was not the only reason for my visit," she confessed. Now was time to push aside her grief. Normally she would not have been able to do it, but after Kelsa's death on top of Marin's, something inside her had changed. She felt more determined than she had ever been in her life, and she was not sure that she liked it. "Kelsa told me you had been an archivist," she began. "She talked about you on our journey, and said you would help me. You see, there is something I simply must know." Dagald looked at her warily. Illirae lowered her voice, even though there was nobody else within earshot. "What was it that had the archivists declared traitors?" When the man did not answer immediately, she prompted, "I understand that some of the archive entries after the execution of the Queen were called slanderous lies."

Dagald clenched his fists. "Those of us who were once the Archivists are now scattered, leading simple lives." His voice was shaking with the effort of remaining calm. "We were banished from our homes in Belisaere. Is that not enough? All we ask now is to be left alone."

"I understand that," said Illirae, hurrying to explain. "But I do not have a lot of time. I must return to the Glacier as quickly as possible. I know the Clayr have declared themselves neutral in this rebellion, but things are starting to move in the Kingdom. The Clayr must do their part, and for Kelsa's sake I am going to see it through. This rebellion started because of the King's madness, and if I could only help expose the truth about that, I feel we could prevent this conflict from escalating into open war. "

The man paused, then something resembling a smile crept over his face. "I am glad – very glad – to hear you say it. Very well," he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands. "I will tell you the truth, Illirae of the Clayr, but it will be up to you to use it wisely."

He lowered his head, gathering his thoughts. Illirae waited patiently. When the man spoke, his voice was measured and careful. "The first thing you must know is that several people worked in the Palace archives. There were the scribes, who recorded meetings, trials, ceremonies, and audiences. And there were the Junior Archivists, who translated and transcribed documents, and were charged with the organization and maintenance of the records. And finally, there was a board of Senior Archivists who ultimately decided what would be written, and by whom, and in what manner. The board ruled on whether or not documents were of any note and ought to be included in the public archives, or if they were to be deemed confidential and remain accessible only to the highest authorities.

Dagald abruptly stood. "I was a Senior Archivist during the Queen's trial and execution," he remarked as he headed over to the miniature library piled against the wall. "After our disagreement with the King many of our records were destroyed, but I managed to save some documents. One, in particular." He rummaged through the papers and extracted a thick scroll tied with a purple ribbon. Dagald returned to the table and placed the scroll carefully in front of Illirae. "This is a copy of the original document that had the archivists banished from Rothain's court."

Illirae gazed at the scroll in astonishment. Within arm's-reach was the answer to one of the Kingdom's most significant questions. "What does it say?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It is a report compiling the contents of several previous documents," said Dagald. "The archivists had recorded the King's changes in health and character, from when he first began the practice of always being surrounded by a diamond of protection, to the days following the Queen's execution. This was corroborated by the signed testimony of the Court Doctor. At first the symptoms were unexplainable, but we will get to that in a moment. Independent of this, the archivists had also made observations about the deteriorating state of the Kingdom. It soon became clear that one of the Charters was weak and tainted, and we postulated that it was the Royal Line. The Senior Archivists examined this evidence, carried out extensive research in your Great Library, and compiled all of the information into a tome. Eventually, through hard work and dedication, we came up with a plausible explanation."

"And what was that?" asked Illirae.

Dagald's lined face was serious. "We proposed that somebody close to the King was working magic upon him to alter his manner."

Illirae stared at the man, dumbfounded. She had never heard of such a thing even being attempted before, let alone succeeding. It was ludicrous. "Somebody..." she said faintly.

"Was influencing the King with magic," Dagald confirmed. "Not an actual poison, like the rumours suggest, but a metaphorical one to be sure. And as Rothain was and still is the sole member of the Family, the Charter had become weak. The Senior Archivists signed _this_ report which outlined our theory," he tapped the scroll. "Upon respectfully presenting it to the King, he flew into a paroxysm of rage. We were exiled from Belisaere, and the Court Doctor was quietly sent to Ancelstierre. The tome of evidence and the original report were destroyed, but we managed to save some copies of the report at great personal risk. This is one of them."

Illirae could very well imagine the King violently reacting to the suggestion that he was being influenced. However, in her experience Chancellor Oraz was a reasonable man who would have at least considered the allegations of the archivists before banishing them. "What did the Chancellor say?" she asked.

"He was never aware of even the existence of the scroll, let alone its contents," Dagald replied bitterly. "It was a delicate matter, and to preserve the King's dignity we approached him directly. Obviously that was the wrong thing to do, and now we are disgraced, banished, and declared traitors. Nobody would listen to us. They would say it was a wild fabrication to get back at the King."

The woman reflected silently upon all that she had been told. The idea that the King, one of the most powerful Charter Mages in existence, was being influenced by magic was almost laughable. And yet...

"Do you have any idea who could have been working magic upon the King? Or even how?" she asked.

Dagald shook his greying head. "No. We never knew. But I have a feeling that now, with everything coming to a head, somebody will find out." He pushed the scroll across the table, and after only a moment's hesitation, Illirae took it.

"Thank you," she said humbly.

The Archivist waved his hand. "I couldn't have made use of it. But I have a feeling you can."

He accompanied her outside in silence, and held the stirrup as she clumsily mounted the horse. "Ride safely, Illirae of the Clayr."


	16. The Lieutenant

_A/N: I hope those of you who had a long weekend enjoyed it! Mine was glorious; I got to sleep in for six straight days. Of course, returning to class on Wednesday morning was a bit of a problem._

_We are now past the story's halfway-point (I'm shooting for thirty chapters), and for fun I looked at the visitor countries of people reading this story. We've got readers from Australia, Canada, Germany, India, Malaysia, New Zealand, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Serbia and Montenegro, Spain, Singapore, Slovakia, South Africa, Switzerland, the United Kingdom, and the United States. Hurrah for internationality! Unless it's just one reader who's constantly travelling..._

**The Lieutenant**

"_Corporal Ciprian reporting for duty."_

_The young man stood stiffly to attention as the Lieutenant ran his sharp gaze over him, from helmet-top to hobnailed boots. Lieutenant Anthone was the Captain's older son, and had a reputation for being strict._

_The older man finished his inspection and pursed his lips slightly in disappointment. Ciprian's heart fell; he had really wanted to make a good first impression. "Bring that left shoulder up. A bit more – there." Lieutenant Anthone gave a short nod, finally satisfied. "Very well, Corporal. Welcome to my platoon. During your service you will conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer. Do you understand?"_

"_Yes sir." Ciprian idly wondered how much he was going to hate his posting here._

"_You will be supervising guard duty around the palace and the city walls, on a rotating schedule. It's quite straightforward."_

"_Sir – will we be doing any scouting duty?"_

_Anthone looked at him sharply, and Ciprian instantly regretted speaking. Just as he was wishing that the cobblestones would swallow him up, another Corporal walked by and gave Anthone a salute, which the Lieutenant absently returned. But Ciprian's attention was fully on the Corporal. A pretty girl with a head of soft, dark curls. With a small grin, Ciprian decided that it wouldn't be so bad after all._

Ciprian had never seen the Kingdom looking so peaceful. He and his force were riding south, parallel to the Upper Ratterlin and skirting the farmlands. Cows were lowing in the distance, and the stillness and tranquility seemed to be mocking Ciprian's own inner turmoil.

On all accounts the reconnaissance mission had been a success. They had mapped the locations of several new guard outposts while remaining undetected. And yet, the young Lieutenant could not forget the archer he had killed. Ghalio did not seem to understand his feelings, and Ciprian doubted that anybody else would. He was not supposed to be feeling remorse, especially over the death of a complete stranger who had posed a threat to his life. His soldiers had been protecting him; in theory, nobody had done anything wrong. But he couldn't let it go. The first death in this mess of a war, and it hadn't even been a soldier.

"Still brooding, sir?"

Ciprian glanced at Ghalio, who had brought his horse up beside his. He realized that he had been unconsciously rubbing his hand – the one the woman had put an arrow through – and gave an apologetic smile. "Maybe."

"You shouldn't take it to heart, Lieutenant," said his cousin frankly. "The archer is dead – nothing we can do about it now."

Ciprian could not share his cousin's point of view, and hearing him state the facts so bluntly was painful. But it would do no good to share his sentiments.

"Look."

Ciprian watched as one of the scouts he had sent ahead came galloping back. Her excited expression revealed that she had something important to say. She started talking even as she brought her horse to a sliding stop in front of him and Ghalio, mopping sweat from her dirt-streaked brow. "Lieutenant," she panted. "Royal Guard patrol – just over the rise – coming from the southeast."

"How many?" demanded Ghalio.

"Fifteen, maybe sixteen."

"There are twelve of us all told," Ciprian murmured. "And they all have the King's protection."

"We have the advantage of surprise," his cousin observed.

Ciprian paused, running over scenarios in his head. They had completed their reconnaissance mission and were only a few days' travel from the rebel encampment. Thus far the rebels and the Royal Guard had engaged in harmless skirmishing, unless you counted Vansen's ill-advised attack on a wandering patrol that had vastly outnumbered his own force. Here, however, they would be more or less evenly-matched. What would Betrys have him do?

"Right," said Ciprian. "We'll conceal ourselves in the underbrush. Give orders to dismount."

Soon the twelve rebels were hidden among the thick bushes and trees that bordered the Ratterlin, lying in wait for the Royal Guards.

"Are we going to attack them, sir?" asked Lancepesade Thela, eyes sparkling as she flexed her grip on her sword.

"I'm not sure," Ciprian admitted. "Let's just wait and see." As soon as he said the words he wished he hadn't. A Lieutenant was not supposed to be indecisive – at least, not in front of his soldiers.

The sound of approaching hooves and voices interrupted the late-afternoon quiet. A group of mounted figures came trotting over the rise. The soldiers looked at Ciprian questioningly, and he motioned with his hand for them to stay hidden. A few of them exchanged confused looks. "Um – sir?" asked Thela in an undertone. "What are we doing? We're supposed to be fighting the King, but you'll have us to creep around secretly like – like rats! After the lousy surprise attack we pulled on that Clayr, we can't just avoid the Royal guard and sit here –"

"You will keep your comments to yourself, soldier!" Ghalio hissed sharply, and the Lancepesade fell silent. Secretly, however, Ciprian was abashed by her sentiments. What he was doing was cowardly. He had let Madran go, and had allowed Illirae to escape. Was he just trying to avoid another failure by hiding in the bushes? Was he becoming an incompetent leader? He could tell by the dark looks and expressions that his soldiers did not like him very much right now. He did not like who he was becoming, either.

In the dense underbrush behind them, a horse whinnied.

The heads of several Royal Guards turned, and at a gesture from their commanding officer they reined their horses to a stop. Ciprian cursed under his breath. His decision had just been taken from him.

"I don't want any killing," he warned, and his soldiers nodded impatiently, hefting their weapons, eager for battle. "All right – now!"

They burst from the underbrush and let loose a volley of spells that blasted half the guard right off their mounts. The King's spells protected them from the worst of the damage, but that did not mean that magic was completely useless against them.

"Get the horses!" Ciprian called, and the soldiers managed to let off another cascade of golden Charter marks that bit and stung, infuriating the animals so that they bolted, snorting, and sent their riders toppling to the ground. Soon Ciprian and his soldiers were in the thick of it, bellowing harsh spells that zipped from their fingers, fending off weapons with weapons, striking, kicking, punching, and playing dirty. They were outnumbered and could not afford to be chivalrous. Ciprian tackled one of the guards at the knees, knocking away his sword and bringing his fist down on his face, again and again, until he was a bloody mess. Beyond he glimpsed Ghalio neatly breaking a guard's arm, and then turning in a smooth motion to let loose one of his knives, which buried itself in another guard's thigh.

The fight was quick, frantic, and ugly. Soon the guards recovered from their initial surprise and began to fight back in earnest. Their magic was far more effective against the unprotected rebels, and as first one and then another of his soldiers was taken out of action, Ciprian wondered if he would fail again after all. And then there were shouts and sounds of confusion as several new people joined the fray: A group from the nearby farms had come to their aid armed with hoes and shovels. After that the tide of battle turned in their favour, and soon the fifteen Royal Guards were sitting or lying on the trampled grass, bleeding, unconscious, and held under guard.

The sun was low and red when Ciprian, gulping for breath, approached the farmers with his hand extended in friendship. "Thank you for your help," he said with a ready grin. "I don't think we would've won that scuffle without you."

The farmers smiled back generously. "Ah, it was nothin'," said one of them with a wave of his mittened hand. "Always ready to help out, sir."

"We've near had enough of them guards too," another farmer added, shaking his metal rake. "Askin' fer taxes, taxes, taxes... You need us, you jus' call on us."

"Lieutenant, sir, will you be attackin' the King?" a third asked eagerly. "Someday soon you gotta do it, right?"

Ciprian paused, thinking back on the past months of the rebellion. It was a stalemate, and unless something drastic happened it was likely to remain so for a long time. "I don't know," he admitted. "That's not up to me, friend. But thank you all again for your help. I won't forget it." He shook hands all around. The farmers respectfully touched their caps, then shouldered their tools and made their way back to their farms. Ciprian watched them go, and suddenly found himself wishing that he could go with them.

"Lieutenant!"

He blinked, sighed, and trudged over to Lancepesade Thela. She was peering down at a crumpled figure in a red and gold uniform. "Their leader," she grunted, nudging it with her boot.

Ciprian bent down and examined the bruised and bloody face. "It's Lieutenant Gamet!" he exclaimed in surprise. As a Corporal in Belisaere, he had been hoping for a transfer to Gamet's platoon. Ciprian had idolized the seasoned officer who led most of the scouting parties along the borders of the Kingdom, and serving under him was an adventure that any young officer would kill for. But a fellow Corporal had beaten him to it. Speaking of which...

"Where's his second-in-command?" he asked, looking around the field.

"Over here, sir," called Ghalio. Ciprian joined his cousin who was standing guard over a young woman sitting cross-legged on the ground. She was nursing a broken arm, and from under the edge of her helmet poked soft, dark curls.

"Hello Esme." he murmured. She did not speak, but twisted up the corner of her bruised mouth into what might have been a smile. They had served together under Anthone, and both of them had badly wanted that transfer to Gamet's scouting platoon. Esme had beaten him out. Ciprian could not help thinking that if she hadn't, Esme might be a rebel now, and he would be serving the King. It was a strange and terrifying thought.

"Ciprian," whispered Ghalio in his ear. "Esme's superior officer is Lieutenant Gamet."

"I know. He's over there, unconscious." Ciprian gestured vaguely over his shoulder.

Ghalio glanced in that direction and his black eyes narrowed. "It was Gamet who had Vansen's hands cut off." Ciprian looked at his cousin, startled by the revelation. It was difficult to believe that a man of Gamet's reputation would do such a vicious thing. A few nearby soldiers exchanged glances. "Sir," said Ghalio in a low voice, "it is only fair that the injury done to us be revisited upon the perpetrator."

Ciprian licked his suddenly-dry lips, very conscious of the expectant faces of the nearby soldiers. Esme's eyes were flicking back and forth between him and his cousin.

"Lieutenant Gamet took Vansen's hands," Ghalio repeated, louder now. Several other soldiers stopped talking and looked over, curious. "We need to strike back, and show the Guard that we are not weak. The _least_ we should do is return the wrong that was done to us."

There was a scrape of metal, and Ciprian wheeled about to see Lancepesade Thela, her sword in hand, looking down at the unconscious form of Lieutenant Gamet. The other soldiers stirred and began to draw near, whispering in anticipation, as the Royal Guards looked on in horror and mounting alarm. Ciprian was suddenly doused in a cold sweat, and he became aware that his whole body was trembling. Something inside of him snapped.

"Wait!" he shouted, hurrying forward, hardly aware of what he was doing. Thela's head jerked up and she glared at him. He stopped in front of her, and forced himself to meet her fierce gaze full-on. "Put away that sword, Lancepesade," he said. Even his voice shook. She stared back at him rebelliously. "Put it away," he repeated, his agitation growing.

Finally, with insolent slowness, she sheathed her weapon and turned her back on him. "Yes – _Lieutenant_."

Ciprian was dimly aware of the other soldiers muttering, and jumped when someone's hand pressed his shoulder. It was Ghalio. His cousin opened his mouth, but Ciprian anticipated his arguments and violently brushed him away. Ghalio's gaze remained steady. "Ciprian, what –"

"I am not cutting off anyone's hands!" the young Lieutenant bellowed, his voice cracking. He was conscious of everyone staring at him, but he did not care. He felt sick. "Release the guards," he snapped, ignoring their astonishment. "Relieve them of their weapons, and put Lieutenant Gamet on a horse. Corporal Esme will take them back to Belisaere."

Nobody moved. Then, "Do it," said Ghalio quietly. There was a buzz of angry conversation as the soldiers moved to carry out their orders. Ciprian had never had to deal with such gross insubordination before. As a Corporal he had commanded the soldiers' respect; but now, because of his own doubts, he had failed to project the image of a confident Lieutenant. Ciprian rubbed his hands over his face and looked out over the wide expanse of farmland. The ground was stained red and black, by the setting sun and the encroaching darkness.


	17. Morning Music

_A/N: Now that we've seen how much fun Ciprian is having as a rebel Lieutenant, we'll return to the palace and find out why Jyss loves her job as the King's personal aide. Everyone's having such a great time!_

**Morning Music**

_The sun was shining, and music spilled from the curtained upstairs window of an inn. Within the room a teenaged girl sat on a wooden bench, playing the board harp. Her hands moved deftly from side to side over the row of strings, picking out an intricate melody._

_A woman opened the door of the room. "Jyss? Breakfast." The girl continued to play, and the woman smiled. She moved over to the small bed and sat down, waiting for her daughter to finish._

_Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a man came into the room. "The guests will be down soon," he said, but stopped when he saw his daughter at the instrument. He stood beside his wife. As the tune grew even more complex the girl's hands flew over the instrument, and her parents listened in silence. They had never heard the song before; another one of their daughter's compositions._

_The music ended in brilliant a rolling cord, and the girl's father applauded. Her mother kissed the top of her head. "That was wonderful, darling."_

"_I remember the first time you played," her father said affectionately. "Your mother and I heard music, and we walked into the room and saw you perched on that bench, your feet dangling and your hair in pigtails. Not even six years old!"_

_The girl's mother beamed. "You have a wonderful future ahead of you as a musician, especially now that King Rothain has driven the barbarians from the Kingdom."_

"_I am not going to be a musician," said Jyss. She got up from the bench and turned to face her parents. "I am going to be a Royal Guard."_

_Her parents stared at her. Then her mother turned to her father. "This is your fault," she accused. "You were always going on about the glory of the Kingdom."_

"_Well _you_ were the one filling her head with all those old stories and romantic legends," her father shot back. He turned to his daughter. "Jyss, you cannot be a Royal Guard. You don't know how to fight."_

"_That is why they have training," the girl pointed out._

_Her mother put her hands on her hips. "But we are not of noble blood."_

"_That is no longer a requirement," Jyss said simply. "They just announced it. I suppose it's because there aren't a lot of guards, and there are few Charter Mages left after the barbarians persecuted them. Don't worry," she added. "I cannot enlist until I am nineteen."_

_Her father placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "Are you sure about this?"_

_The girl set her jaw and nodded. "Yes. I am."_

"All right, Jyss?"

"Good morning, Jyss."

The young guard nodded at the various people she passed in the hallway. Corporal Jyss had no idea how she was ever going to learn the names of all the inhabitants of the Palace, but it seemed that everyone knew who she was. Even some of the friendlier servants greeted her by name as they popped in and out of rooms holding breakfast trays and freshly-laundered bed linens.

King Rothain had sent Jyss to fetch his own morning meal, having gotten fed up with the servants doing it, and she marched along the corridors as quickly as she could without spilling anything. Despite her having grown up in her parents' inn, she found it difficult to concentrate on balancing the King's breakfast tray; her mind was dwelling on the conversation she'd had with Captain Finessa. It was bad enough being warned that Rothain's enemies could use her to influence the King – which thankfully had not happened yet due to her chaotic schedule. But now her superior officers were _ordering_ her to influence the King!

The Captain had informed Jyss that the Chancellor and Abhorsen wanted her to convince King Rothain to hold audiences, and therefore win back the support of the people. Jyss liked and trusted the Chancellor, but there were rumours that he was getting old. She couldn't help wondering if he was being realistic in his efforts to make the King more accessible and sympathetic. Indeed, the hatred against Rothain was more violent now than it had ever been before. Corporal Sabel had told her that the conflict was escalating, with more skirmishing in the midlands and the Royal Guard coming up against farmers as well as the rebels. In a town some people had injured their Sergeant at Arms, and a King's Messenger had barely escaped being stoned to death. For some reason, the Captain, Chancellor, and Abhorsen all thought that Jyss could change the public's perception of King Rothain. She wished she deserved their faith.

The guards opened the doors to the King's chambers and Jyss gave them a grateful nod as she sidled inside, balancing the teetering tray. She made her way to a gilt door and, with some interesting manoeuvring, managed to get it open. Jyss set the tray down on a small table where the King sometimes took his meals. The silverware had become jumbled and she straightened it out, hoping it was lined up in something resembling the correct order. The heavy red velvet curtains were thrown open, and morning sunlight glittered on the delicate golden ornaments. Jyss savoured the view of the Bay before glancing around the room. Corporal Sabel had told her that the King used to have breakfast with his Queen in there. Back when things had been normal in the Palace.

"Well," Jyss sighed. "I suppose I'd better find the King."

Rothain's personal chambers were quite extensive, and Jyss had peered into eight rooms before an unexpected sound reached her ears. She paused to listen. It was music – the first that she had ever heard within the King's quarters. Jyss moved towards the salon that housed the musical instruments, idly wondering who the musician was. She turned the crystal doorknob.

Peering around the door, Jyss could hardly believe her eyes: King Rothain sat on the polished wooden bench, his long fingers moving skilfully over the strings. His playing was exquisite. But even stranger was the fact that there was no diamond of protection around him. The only time that happened was when the King moved from room to room. Whenever he settled in one place, instantly the diamond of protection would flare up. But not here, not now. Perhaps he had made a mistake.

Rothain was completely absorbed in his playing, and Jyss approached him quietly, hesitantly, not wanting to interrupt the music. The King glanced up at her, and gave a faint smile. "Hello," he said, his pale hands still moving over the instrument as if of their own accord. "Do you play?"

"Yes, your Majesty, I do," said Jyss. "Would you like me to cast–?"

"Come and sit down," said the King, not paying any attention. He scooted over on the bench, and Jyss glanced nervously at the doorway before moving to perch on the edge of the velvet-cushioned seat. She had never sat this close to the King before; she doubted anyone had for the past year. She was nervous, but not frightened. "Play," urged the King, moving the intricate melody seamlessly into a popular folk tune. Jyss bit her lip, then reached out slowly and plucked the higher strings, playing a countermelody that she improvised as she went along. For a moment the young guard marvelled at the strange occasion: she was playing a board harp duet with the King! Then she lost herself in the music, and the pleasure that playing gave her.

When they finished the song Rothain nodded in approval. "Very good," he said. He turned to her, and jumped up in surprise. "Great Charter!"

"What!" yelled Jyss, also leaping to her feet, hand shooting to her sword as she looked wildly around the room. Her heart was pounding in her throat, but she could see nobody.

The King was squinting at her across the bench, which had been knocked askew. "Your eyes," he murmured. "Brown, with green in them." Jyss relaxed, rubbing at her leg ruefully; she'd bumped it on the bench. "_She_ has eyes like that," Rothain remarked.

"She?"

"A girl I keep thinking about," said the King with an airy wave of his hand. "Or perhaps dreaming about. But your hair is red, and hers is black. Very black, like ocean waves at night. I cannot think about her too much. If I do, my head begins to hurt. She is a pretty girl, but afraid. I wonder what she is afraid of..." He lapsed into silence.

Jyss felt sick in the pit of her stomach. King Rothain was talking about his Queen. She recognized the description from the famous portrait in the Belisaere Museum. And according to the stories told by Corporal Pheran, the young woman _had_ been afraid – of her husband. During that terrible year during which the King had grown more and more suspicious and unpredictable, the Queen had gone about the palace with the expression of a hunted animal, or so Corporal Pheran had told her. The young woman had insisted upon sleeping in a separate bedroom, something that only served to heighten the King's suspicions, which led to her execution.

Rothain winced and closed his eyes, bringing his fingers up to his temples. Jyss stepped forward, hovering, reluctant to touch him. "Your Majesty?" The King sank onto the bench, still clutching his head; it looked like the beginning of one of his attacks. "Your Majesty!" said Jyss, more urgently, throwing decorum to the winds and grabbing Rothain's arm. She remembered what he had said about the girl. "Don't think about her," she urged. "Think about something else, like…" Jyss looked wildly around the room for inspiration. "Like music! How long have you played the board harp? My lord King? Answer me, please." She shook his arm.

"Since I was a child," the King groaned. He was still holding his head.

"And – and who was your instructor?" Jyss demanded, sitting down beside him. It was important that he get his mind off the Queen.

"Brellis, the Music Master." Rothain lowered his hands, wincing.

"Did you like Master Brellis?" Jyss held her breath, hoping that she had successfully distracted him.

A fleeting smile passed over the King's young face. "No. He did not care that I was a prince – he rapped my knuckles all the same when I did not practice." He grew suddenly sober. "He's dead now. He died during the war, when the enemy breached the palace. He died the same day my family died." The King grew quiet again, but Jyss was thankful that the pain – and the memories – had passed.

Jyss suddenly remembered Captain Finessa's orders. She was hesitant to try to convince the King of anything when he was so vulnerable and dependent on her. It was like she was taking advantage of his condition. But duty to her Kingdom won out. "Um... Your Majesty?" she hazarded. After all, the worst he could do was not listen to her, and he had done that plenty of times before. No – he could actually do far, far worse. Rothain was one of the most powerful Charter Mages in the Kingdom. But she still had to try. "You do know that there are some – ah – problems in the Kingdom right now?"

Rothain glanced up at her. He still looked very ill, but the bright glaze over his eyes was missing. Something told her that this man was not insane. "What problems?" he asked quietly.

Encouraged, Jyss answered him. "Well, your people are unhappy. The rebels are gaining popularity." The King seemed truly concerned, so she hazarded: "Perhaps it would help if you granted audiences –"

Rothain lifted a hand to cut her off. His eyes seemed to have changed: now they were bright and feverish. "That is not possible," he said harshly. "I must always stay within my diamond of protection. Always."

Jyss took a deep breath, and asked what she had never dared ask before: "Why?"

"I must," the King repeated firmly. His head jerked as he stared at the floor, realizing that there was no diamond around him now. "Why is it gone?" he asked, growing agitated. Jyss resisted the urge to point out that he had probably dissolved it himself. "Put it up again!" Rothain ordered, turning his flashing eyes on Jyss who hastily got up from the bench. A Charter mark inadvertently shot from his hand and shattered a lute hanging on the wall. Jyss flinched and took an instinctive step back. "Put it up again! _Now_!" His face was flushed, his hands were curled, and the purple vein in his left temple was throbbing.

If he grew more agitated he would destroy the entire room, so Jyss threw up her hands and cast the four cardinal points as quickly as she could. For a moment they stared at one another. Then –

"Why did I not have my diamond of protection!" the King bellowed, jumping to his feet. "You are supposed to _guard_ me, you stupid girl! Do you realize what could have happened? Do you even _fathom_ the danger you could have put me in?"

"I – I'm sorry," Jyss gasped, feeling tears prickling her eyes.

"Do not speak!" the King roared, spit flying from his mouth. "You made an error! A grave, foolish error!"

As he raged on, Jyss wondered if this was how her predecessor had felt before the King had relieved him of his post. She raised her chin and stood her ground, convinced that Rothain was going to blast her to pieces.

Eventually, though, Rothain stopped yelling. He leaned on the board harp, utterly drained, and carefully sank down onto the bench once more. "Never," he said, voice shaking with strain, "let that happen again."

Jyss bowed her head. "Yes, Majesty." She considered herself lucky to be alive. A mad thought suddenly entered her head, one that she tried to dismiss, but it would not leave her alone. "May I make a suggestion?" she asked, inwardly marvelling at her own stupidity. Rothain merely nodded, still weary from his outburst. "Majesty, you can hold audiences and stay within your diamond of protection. The only reason I mention this is because there are many who very much desire the honour of having you hear what they have to say." The young guard watched as the King considered her words. And just like that he was back to normal, or as close to normal as he could get. "The Chancellor can only do so much," Jyss added helpfully. She held her breath.

Rothain looked at her. "All right," he said finally, and Jyss had to consciously prevent herself from gasping in surprise. "But only if you take care of everything. Not a soul is to see me outside of a diamond of protection. Understand?"

Jyss gave a low bow. "I do. Thank you, Your Majesty." It was all she could do to keep from collapsing to the ground in relief. "Oh!" she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "Breakfast is served."


	18. Stratagems

_A/N: I just couldn't wait to post this chapter, because__... __well, we're back with Ghalio (insert evil laugh)._

**Stratagems**

_She was sitting in the gardens with her ladies-in-waiting, a vision with her flowing black hair and scarlet dress. The guard watched from a distance, marvelling at the grace of her every movement, at the delicacy of her hands as they tucked a flower into her sash. A red rose. A sign._

_The guard strode forward and bowed to the assembled company. "My Queen," he said courteously, "I have a message for you from the King. Would you walk with me for a little?"_

_The Queen stood and smiled reassuringly at her ladies-in-waiting before taking his arm. They set off down one of the garden paths towards a secluded grove. As they walked, the guard's eyes ran over the woman at his side in admiration, enthralled by the loveliness of her features. "And what is the message, Corporal Ghalio?" Her voice was music._

"_I have a confession," said the guard when they had reached the shelter of the trees. "There is no message. I wanted to speak with you alone." Her eyes registered surprise as he grasped both her hands in his. "My lady," he said in a rush. "Ever since I first laid eyes on you, I loved you."_

_Her pale cheeks flushed. "Corporal, please –"_

"_I must make my feelings known," he continued passionately. "And if, my dearest Irabel, there is some small chance that you could one day love me –"_

"_Ghalio, stop," the Queen commanded. She withdrew her hands from his and gazed at him sorrowfully. "I am married to Rothain," she said softly._

"_He is away on state business. And he asked me to look after you while he is off rebuilding the Kingdom," Ghalio countered. "Irabel, he is never around." He grabbed her, hard, by the arms. "Do not tell me that you love a man you hardly know!"_

_The Queen was unable to meet his gaze. "He is my husband," she said shakily. "And you are his good friend. I am grieved that I should have any cause to hurt you, but I cannot return your affections." She bit her lip. "Perhaps it would be best if we do not speak alone again."_

_For a long moment Ghalio said nothing. Then he pulled the woman towards him and thrust his mouth against hers. He ignored her struggling, and it was only when her nails bit deep into his neck that he released her. They stared at one another, flushed and angry, before she turned and fled. He watched her run across the lawn. And deep within him, a fire began to burn._

Ghalio couldn't help smiling as he made his way through the dark encampment. It was good to be back! Long days of riding around the countryside in all manner of weather were over, and Ghalio much preferred the comfort of his tent, even if he had to share it with that young idiot Corporal Hallam. Now that he was back he could continue with his secret work, and he had just sent a message to the Palace. Ghalio's usual correspondent, Lieutenant Padric, had not answered his last few encrypted letters. Ghalio could not help but wonder if this had something to do with the archer who had been killed by the river. The braided hair and clan tattoo had reminded him of the woman he and Padric had imprisoned for the assassination attempt on Rothain. If it really was her, and she had been released, then perhaps they had found the real offender. Padric was one loose end Ghalio wished he had tied up, but he was not unduly worried; when he had left the Palace with the rebel force, the Lieutenant had been a bit unhinged. Even if Padric decided to talk – and he wouldn't for fear of Ghalio – nobody would believe him.

So instead Ghalio had sent a letter to his other contact at the Palace, Lord Goron. There was a message he wanted passed on to Lord Ivor, and Goron would see it done. The message was simple: _When Captain Betrys attacks, she will be relying on old friends for support._ The two sides were at a stalemate and Betrys had shown no inclination for attacking Belisaere, but Ghalio's next actions would be instrumental in furthering his schemes.

The dark-haired man reached the eastern watchtower, one of four lookouts placed around the perimeter of the encampment. He slung his bag over his shoulder, climbed the ladder, and pulled himself up onto the floor of the small wooden structure. "Hello Lieutenant," he greeted the seated figure.

Ciprian glanced around and made room for him on the bench. Ciprian, who had been merely reprimanded for letting Ensign Madran go free. Ciprian, who had actually been commended for releasing Lieutenant Gamet and an entire patrol of Royal Guards. What had Betrys said? It had shown the people that the rebels were merciful. The Captain was getting soft in her old age, and there was nothing her golden boy Ciprian could do wrong – until now. Ghalio knew better than anyone that Ciprian was on the verge of breaking down.

Ghalio sat beside his cousin and cracked his back. Ciprian made a face. "You know I hate that. Did you come here to annoy me?"

The older man leaned his arms on the sill of the window. Except for a hooting owl, the surrounding forest was quiet. "Am I not allowed to visit my favourite cousin? Seriously, though," he said, "I came to see if you were all right. You haven't been yourself, Lieutenant."

"I know." Ciprian sighed and hung his head. "It's just – I'm losing the confidence of the men. I – I don't think I am a fit officer, Ghalio. How can I be if I don't believe in what we are doing? And still I cannot forget the archer." He gave a small grin. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

"No." Ghalio feigned an expression of sympathy. "You had to make some difficult choices. However," he drew a large bottle of wine from his bag with a flourish, "I have something that can help you forget. Now I know you cannot drink while on duty," he said when his cousin opened his mouth to protest, "but you really, really need it. I can tell just by looking at you."

"You know I don't handle drinking very well," Ciprian pointed out ruefully.

Ghalio waved his arm. "Nonsense! Since when were you such a stickler for the rules? Listen, you cannot concentrate on your lookout duties if you are caught up in your own self-doubt. This way you'll gain some well-earned peace of mind," he shook the bottle, "and I can keep an eye out for you while I'm up here."

The younger man frowned. "This is not a good idea..."

"You've never let that stop you before," said Ghalio as he uncorked the bottle. He raised it in salute and took a sip before holding it out.

Ciprian was shaking his head. "I'm going to regret this," he mumbled, but he accepted the wine. He took a large gulp and grimaced. "By the way," he said, taking a few more swallows, "Is there any word on Vansen?"

"None." Ghalio looked out over the forest. "Anthone says they've gone over every inch of the encampment – twice. He's gone." Ghalio hitched a sorrowful look onto his face. "I cannot help but feel responsible. You know I used to visit him while he was moping around in his tent – I was probably the _only_ one to visit him during that time. Perhaps my being away during our scouting mission caused him to feel abandoned."

"You cannot blame yourself," said Ciprian sympathetically. "The rest of us are culpable, but you stood by him after we had turned our backs. You ought to be honoured for it." He raised the wine bottle to his cousin before drinking again.

Ghalio smiled. "Being toasted by a Lieutenant is a high honour indeed."

"Bah!" Ciprian laughed and slapped Ghalio on the back. "Enough of that Lieutenant business. I am your cousin and you are my cousin. We are both cousins, and in that we are equal." He took several large gulps from the bottle.

As he watched Ciprian guzzle the wine, Ghalio reflected gleefully that the other man could not handle drink at all well. "I am glad to see you so cheerful," he remarked.

The younger man lowered the bottle, his chin dripping with wine. "Cheerful?" he mused. "Yes, I suppose I am. It makes a nice change. You see," he lowered his voice and looked at his cousin seriously, "I am in a terrible situation." He proffered the wine bottle, and when Ghalio refused he took a long, long drought of his own. "Terrible. I feel –" he placed one hand dramatically on his chest. "I feel several things pulling me in different directions. Have you ever felt that way?"

"Sometimes," said Ghalio noncommittally.

Ciprian looked at him with desperation in his bloodshot eyes. "Well, I feel that way all the time. You see, I've betrayed the Charter, but like my ancestors it was my duty to preserve it. I'm the worst traitor in this entire camp! Oh, but you don't count, cousin," he added, clapping Ghalio on the shoulder. "You were never really an Abhorsen." Ghalio gave a cold smile.

"Look at me!" Ciprian exclaimed, spreading his arms. "Mother said I'd amount to something, but I never believed her. Well, I'm something now. A traitor, and not even a good one at that."

Ghalio patted Ciprian's shoulder and found himself pulled into a tight embrace. "It's all right," he said awkwardly as Ciprian sobbed onto his shoulder. "We all feel that way sometimes." His cousin pulled back and wiped his eyes. "That's it," Ghalio encouraged. "Go on, have another drink." Ciprian sniffed and took several mouthfuls of wine. Ghalio watched with satisfaction as his cousin drank and drank. He checked the position of the rising moon. Any time now...

"You know what you need to cheer up?" he said.

Ciprian was swaying on the bench, but managed to stare at him with bleary eyes. "What?"

"How about a song?" Ghalio said innocently.

A huge grin spread over Ciprian's face. "A song!" he exclaimed. "Excellent idea." He took a deep breath, and without more ado he bellowed out: "Landlord fill the flowing bowl, until it doth run over! For tonight we'll merry, merry be! Tomorrow we'll be sober!"

During the last line Ghalio's sharp ears had detected approaching footsteps. A hoarse voice suddenly called out: "Hey! What's going on up there?"

Ghalio turned to Ciprian. "Quiet," he hissed, stifling a smile. "They can hear you."

And still his cousin kept on singing: "The man who'd kiss the pretty girl and go and tell his mother, ought to have his lips cut off, and never kiss another!"

"I'm reporting you!" the hoarse voice shouted. "I'm going to the Captain, I am."

Ghalio grabbed Ciprian's arm. "Now you've done it."

His cousin stopped singing and looked at him in confusion. "Done what?"

But Ghalio did not answer him. Everything was in motion now; all he had to do was watch it unfold. And soon enough he heard several sets of footsteps approaching, and the voice of Captain Betrys rang out: "Lookout! Report!"

Ghalio turned to Ciprian, who was looking bewildered. "That's you. Go on, then," he said quietly, motioning towards the ladder. He followed his cousin down to the ground where Captain Betrys stood with some soldiers bearing torches. At her side was Lancepesade Sino. Passing soldiers lingered to watch the proceedings, and others were poking their heads out of their tents.

The Captain's sharp eyes ran over Ciprian, who was swaying on his feet, and Ghalio, who met her gaze steadily. "I heard a most unusual report," she said. "This man," she motioned at Sino, "told me that he was passing by the lookout, and heard singing. Is this true?"

Ghalio glanced sidelong at Ciprian. The younger man nodded. Betrys gazed at the Lieutenant and pursed her lips. "If I did not know better, Lieutenant Ciprian, I would say you had been drinking."

"Captain, please, it's not his fault," Ghalio spoke up. Ciprian was already doomed, and words on his cousin's behalf would secure Ghalio's own reputation as a loyal officer. "I'm the one who brought him the wine. The Lieutenant was troubled and I thought I could perform his lookout duties while offering him some company."

The Captain sighed. "Corporal, I understand that you want to defend your cousin. Nevertheless, drinking while on duty is strictly forbidden." She turned to Ciprian. "Do you deny it?"

Ciprian shook his head, unable to meet her gaze.

"He only drank because he had a great deal on his mind," argued Ghalio in his cousin's defence. "Such an error could happen to any man."

"True," admitted the Captain. "But it cannot happen to one of my officers." She turned to his cousin. "Ciprian, you are my Lieutenant no longer." She reached out and ripped the badge from his sleeve. "Ghalio," she said quietly, "you will take his place." Ghalio bowed his head, keeping his expression carefully blank. "Meet me in my tent in ten minutes." She looked around at the spectators who had watched the proceedings in amazed silence. "What are you staring at? Go back to what you were doing!" she barked. As the onlookers walked away and ducked back into their tents, she turned to Ciprian, who stood demoted and disgraced, and the expression on her lined face softened. She placed her hand on his shoulder. "I am truly sorry."

Ghalio watched as she walked away. Beside him, Ciprian suddenly collapsed to his hands and knees and vomited all over the ground. Ghalio quickly knelt, supporting his cousin as he retched and heaved. When the younger man was done, Ghalio offered a handkerchief and Ciprian wiped his mouth. He was almost in tears. "I'm sorry," Ghalio whispered.

Ciprian shook his head, wincing. "Charter, I'm so ashamed. Nothing – never – I can't believe I just – oh, _Charter_." He buried his face in his muddy hands. "What has become of me?"

Ghalio helped him to his feet. "I have to go," he said quietly. "Should I walk you to your tent?" Ciprian shook his head mutely and stumbled off into the night. Ghalio watched him leave. He turned to Lancepesade Sino, who had waited behind in the dark for instructions.

"Well done, Sino. Your timing was perfect. I must report to the Captain, but in the meantime," he gestured at the lookout, "take Ciprian's post. Sergeant," he added. The old man grinned. Upon hearing that he would receive a promotion, he had been only too willing to help.

At the Captain's tent Ghalio was immediately admitted. Betrys looked at him from across her desk. "I will waste no time, Lieutenant," she said briskly. "You are now a commanding officer, and I would like your opinion."

This was critical. Ghalio did not hesitate. "Captain, you must make the first move and attack Rothain while Belisaere is weak." He had rehearsed this moment for a long time. The King, a mere child, had always had what Ghalio desired, and now the time was ripe for revenge.

Captain Betrys was looking at him with interest. His confidence and aggressive tactics had gotten her attention. She motioned for him to sit. "Go on."

As he sank into a chair, inwardly Ghalio rejoiced. Ciprian was safely out of the way, and now, a Lieutenant at last, he had the ear of the leader of the rebellion. Things couldn't have worked out more perfectly.

_A/N: Disclaimer here: Ciprian's drinking song is a real one, entitled "Landlord Fill the Flowing Bowl". Reviews, as always, are most welcome._


	19. Will You Join Us

_A/N: I know, I know. Ghalio's a jerk. And now I think it's high time we find out what Favilliel's been up to._

_On a somewhat-related note, I'm a moderator in the General forum known as "The Shoppe", which is partially an OKT RP. I've started a writing challenge for OKT fanfics, calling for submissions that cover topics you don't normally see in this category. The goal is to increase the variety of OKT fics on this site, to try writing something creative that may be out of your comfort zone, and to have fun. If you're interested in writing an unconventional OKT fic, check it out! Deadline for submissions is the end of May._

**Will You Join Us**

"_When you meet King Edrian, you are to stop before the throne and bow low. And don't speak unless he addresses you directly."_

_The young girl hurried to keep up with the long steps of her uncle as they followed a Royal Guard through the palace. "Do not fuss or fidget," her uncle continued. "Don't look around the room, but don't stare at the King either." It seemed that there was a lot to remember, and the girl tried her best to keep it all in her head. She hoped the King was worth all of the fuss her uncle was making._

_Soon they stopped before a large set of double doors, and her uncle's stern gaze raked over her. "Straighten your tunic," he snapped. "And stand up straight. Ready, Favilliel?"_

_Before she could even nod the doors were opening, and she followed her uncle into the throne room. She stopped when he stopped, bowed low, and remembered not to fidget. But she couldn't help gazing curiously at the man seated in the throne. He noticed her staring, and his eyes twinkled. The girl decided that she liked him immensely._

A blunt dinner knife did not make the best carving instrument, but Favilliel had to make do with what she had. Her prison cell was the most unexciting place she had ever been, and in an attempt to alleviate her boredom Favilliel had begun carving pictures on the stones. Now she was seated on the cold floor, attempting to reconstruct the entire Abhorsen genealogy along the bottom of the wall. Rough carvings depicted her ancestors fighting a variety of Free Magic creatures and Greater Dead, and right now she engraving a sixteenth figure: her uncle.

"Hard at work again?"

Favilliel's hand slipped, and an irregular gash appeared through the carving of Thorael. She glared at the man across the hall.

"Cannot get out of here," the other prisoner giggled. "No matter how hard you work. I tried." He reached out to touch the bars, there was a flash of golden light, and he yelped in pain before breaking out into raucous laughter. It was difficult to believe that this man had once been Lieutenant Padric of the Royal Guard. Either he found something incredibly funny, or he was a lunatic. Madran had told her that Padric had seemed a bit unstable before his arrest.

Favilliel smiled to herself as she set about repairing the damage to her uncle's picture. Madran had finally returned to his duties as Ensign, and had visited her a few times. The visits had been brief; aside from Betrys and the rebels Favilliel was probably the worst person someone could get caught fraternizing with. She did not receive many other visitors, except the jailors and the occasional brief message of encouragement from the Chancellor.

A soft echoing sound reached Favilliel's ears, and she paused: several footsteps were approaching, and it was too early for the jailors to be coming by. Her heart pounded in her chest. Perhaps the Chancellor had failed. Perhaps Rothain had ordered her execution. Perhaps they were coming right now to take her to the scaffold. She clenched the knife in her hand; she would not go without a fight.

Soon a group of people halted in front of the bars, and with a start Favilliel recognized Lord Ivor, the man who had spoken for the jury at her trial. She scanned the other faces, identifying prominent members of the aristocracy. Overall, it was an illustrious company.

"There she is," said Corporal Tralon in an undertone, holding out a key as he looked over his shoulder. Lord Ivor murmured his thanks, and one of the women gave the head jailor something that glittered. Tralon glanced at his payment and turned to leave.

"Wait."

Instantly the Corporal froze, and for good reason. Even when Ivor spoke softly his voice commanded attention. Ivor inclined his head at Padric across the hall. "What about him?"

Tralon hesitated, then fumbled at his belt for another key. The door of Padric's cell squeaked open, and the jailor unceremoniously hoisted the other prisoner to his feet. "C'mon, old fellow," he muttered. "We're going for a walk."

"A walk?" Padric giggled as the jailor led him away. His laughter echoed long after they had disappeared around the corner.

When they were gone, Ivor slipped they key into the door of Favilliel's cell. The Charter spells on the bars flickered and went out, and the door swung open. Favilliel finally got up from her cross-legged position on the floor, holding the blunt dinner knife loosely in her hand. "Rest easy, Favilliel," said Ivor as the group stepped into her cell. "You are among friends."

"Am I?" she replied lightly. This was the first time she had ever spoken with Lord Ivor, and she found him intimidating. The Abhorsens were a tall family, but Ivor was taller even than Thorael, and broader. Favilliel knew of his reputation as a diplomat, but she could easily imagine him leading troops on a battlefield. There was something about this man that merited respect.

He gestured with his hand for her to sit down, an oddly courteous gesture that made Favilliel uncomfortable. She sat at the small table that was one of the few furnishings in her cell, and Ivor took the only other seat across from her. His companions, two men and three women, dispersed themselves around the small room. It was the most crowded the little cell had ever been.

From beneath his cloak Ivor brought a dark bottle. He poured a measure of wine for each of them and raised his cup. "Your health," he said, taking a sip. Favilliel did not drink. "I see you have been busy," Ivor remarked as he looked at the carvings on the wall, his sharp green eyes taking in every detail. Favilliel was reminded of the strange albino dwarf who skulked about the Abhorsen's House and had secret conversations with her uncle. It was not a pleasant association.

Ivor suddenly smiled and pointed at the carving of Thorael with a gash through his body. "Angry at your uncle?"

Favilliel gave a polite smile. "That was a mistake."

"There are no mistakes," Lord Ivor observed mildly. "Unless you count…" He gestured around the cell, and then leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table. "Listen, Favilliel. I know that you were right to set Illirae free, and to stand up to your uncle in court. I commend you for it. We all do." He looked at his companions, who nodded and smiled at the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. "If there is anything we could bring you to make your stay more comfortable – a particular food, perhaps? Or some books?"

"What did you really come to say, Lord Ivor?" asked Favilliel, cutting to the chase. This man would not visit her unless he desperately wanted something. Coming to speak to her was a risky move. She crossed her arms and waited.

Ivor smiled. "Straight to the point. All right. Here's the situation. It does not look like the King will pardon you. The Chancellor claims that Rothain is considering the matter, but we all know different. The King will not take the jury's recommendation, no matter how Oraz tries to push it through. We – and several others – know that you were imprisoned wrongly. We want to release you."

"Re-" Favilliel paused and gulped. Had she heard right? It was almost too good to be true. "Release me?"

"Of course, it will be dangerous for us if we do," Lord Ivor acknowledged. "Corporal Tralon thinks that we just want to speak with you. But I believe we have enough influence to keep the Chancellor at bay if we let you out."

"And what do you want from me in return?" asked Favilliel, trying to hide her excitement. These people would not stick out their necks for nothing. Freedom would come with a price.

The other lords and ladies exchanged glances, and Ivor gave a huff of laughter. "I will try not to be offended by that question. Your imprisonment is a breach of justice. Is that not enough?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"Well, naturally we would expect you to remember our actions in future," admitted Lord Ivor.

"I see." Favilliel idly tapped the table with her knife. She could see that it annoyed Ivor, so she kept on doing it. She did not like this man pretending that he wasn't striking a deal. If he wanted to release her for something in return, he ought to just come out and ask her. Favilliel was tired of these games. "What could I do for you in future?" she said flatly.

"I think you know," Ivor replied. He smiled. "You are a traitor now, Favilliel, so I do not mind saying these things to you." He took another sip of wine. "The King is unfit to rule. The Chancellor is doing the Kingdom a disservice by keeping him on the throne. Thus far we have tried to do things legally, but we failed to get the Chancellor on our side. That is unfortunate." He paused briefly. "Soon we will need to take more desperate action."

"A coup?" Favilliel guessed.

Ivor inclined his head. "The Kingdom must be governed by those who are fit for it." He gazed at her seriously. "You would be of great help to us, Favilliel. Your powers are of course remarkable, but you would also give our mission support from the Charter. If you aided us, it would be powerfully symbolic to the people."

Favilliel remained silent. So they were planning to dethrone Rothain, and they wanted her support. The Abhorsen was faithful to the Crown, so who better to give their actions legitimacy than the Abhorsen-in-Waiting?

"There is not much time left," Ivor continued. "The people are dissatisfied, skirmishing in the midlands has increased, and someone will have to make a move soon. It will be Betrys. And when she attacks, so will we."

"How do you know that she will make a move?" asked Favilliel. "The rebels have held out for months. They can do so indefinitely."

Ivor exchanged a glance with one of the lords in the cell. "I have my information. And they cannot hold out forever. As I said, the conflict is escalating, and it is only a matter of time. This is going to happen whether you like it or not, Favilliel, and sooner or later you will have to choose a side. With the exception of your uncle, you are the only person in Belisaere strong enough to stand up to the King, if it ever came to that."

Favilliel's head snapped up, and she stared at Ivor. Was he really suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Inexplicably she found herself thinking of Rothain's father, King Edrian. "It seems that if I join you," she said cautiously, "I might have to... extinguish the Royal Line. That is a problem. I am faithful to the Charter, Lord Ivor. I may not agree with the King or the Clayr – I may even act against them – but I will not destroy them."

The older man shook his head. "It may not come to that," he reasoned. "If the King cooperates, we will treat him well. The Royal Line does not need to end. In fact, if Rothain begets an heir we could see to it that the child was raised properly." Favilliel stared at him. The thought of these people using Rothain only for his blood filled her with revulsion. But Ivor was leaning back in the chair with his arms folded across his broad chest. "So there you have it," he finished. "What is your decision, Favilliel? Will you join us?"

There was hardly a sound in the cold stone cell while Favilliel thought. A part of her yearned to be free, and out from under this constant shadow of death. Every time she heard a jailor approach her throat went dry and her palms went wet, and the strain was beginning to tell on her. And most of Ivor's arguments were sound, and he truly cared about the welfare of the Kingdom. She herself had defied the King and the Abhorsen, and she did not regret her actions. But freeing Illirae against the King's orders was one thing. Actively assisting in a coup was something else entirely. She had a choice, and she did not like either outcome.

Favilliel tried to think it out rationally, but there was nothing rational about this situation. Ivor and his companions were waiting, and she still did not have an answer. Favilliel began to grow angry with herself; why couldn't she choose whether or not she would join their side? And why was everyone demanding that Favilliel even choose a side in this insane conflict? Her uncle had often emphasized the importance of an Abhorsen's loyalty to the Crown, and at her trial it had been suggested that she harboured rebel sympathies. But Favilliel did not want to take sides. She did not like either side. They were both wrong. What she wanted – what she _really_ wanted – was a solution without civil war.

"Well," she said finally, with a sinking feeling in her heart. "As much as I appreciate your offer, Lord Ivor, I must respectfully decline."

The silence became even more profound. Lord Ivor was staring at her as if convinced that he had misunderstood, and his companions looked astonished at her decision. Already Favilliel was wondering if she had made the right choice in turning down their offer of freedom.

"You – decline?" asked Ivor with forced calm. At Favilliel's nod, he sighed. "If I am unable to persuade you, I can use other means," he said. His green eyes were cold. "You are an intelligent young woman, Favilliel. You are in a jail cell, unable to do anything. Unable to protect those who are close to you. The Ensign, for example."

Favilliel stood up so fast that her chair crashed to the ground. "Don't you _dare_ threaten Madran!" she snarled, starting towards him. One of Ivor's companions stepped in the way and Favilliel raised her hand, a Charter spell crackling between her fingers. She could still cast magic within the confines of her spelled cell, although it was taxing.

"Goron!" Ivor barked, and the other lord backed down. Ivor sighed and got up from the chair. "I am sorry you will not be joining us." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a knife, and for a wild moment Favilliel thought he was going to attack her with it. But he only placed it on the table. "Perhaps you can use it," he said grimly. "When you are not pardoned for high treason, it will offer a better alternative than torture."

Favilliel stared at the blade, and shuddered. "Get out," she said, glaring around at the other men and women. "All of you. Now!"

At a nod from Ivor they retreated from the cell, closing the door behind them with a resounding bang. When they were gone Favilliel sank to the ground and buried her head in her hands. Had she made a mistake in refusing Ivor's offer? Were they going to harm Madran, or had it been an idle threat? And was Rothain truly going to condemn her to death? There was no way she could know. The stone corridor was deserted, and the cell across the way was empty, so for the first time in days the Abhorsen-in-Waiting allowed herself to break down and cry.


	20. A Time To Act

_A/N: Two-thirds of the way through, and now we're back with the Clayr. It's been awhile since we've caught up with Illirae._

**A Time to Act**

_The young Clayr ranger looked nervously around at the older women. "You wished to see me?"_

_Some of them were avoiding her gaze. Others wore pitying expressions. Still others were determinedly stone-faced. All were members of the Nine Day Watch, powerful in the Sight._

"_We apologize, Thess, for summoning you during your patrol," said one of the women. "But we have some news that we thought you would appreciate to hear without delay."_

"_Yes?" asked Thess, the young ranger._

_The woman spoke cautiously. "It concerns your friends, Illirae and Marin."_

"_They are in Estwael," said Thess in confusion, and some fear – perhaps her visions had been correct? "The barbarians invaded while they were at the court, so they stayed there."_

_The other Clayr exchanged glances. "Thess," said their spokeswoman gently, "the Nine Day Watch has Seen something of your friends, but a letter received today confirms it. Illirae and Marin left the court at Estwael some time ago. But they did not make it to the Glacier."_

_The young woman stared from face to face. "You mean..." She did not finish her sentence. She did not have to. With barbarians overrunning the Kingdom, it would be difficult for two travellers to go unnoticed in the long lonely stretch of plains between Estwael and the Glacier. Even if one of the travellers was Marin. Thess felt tears spring to her eyes. Lively, brave Marin. Gentle, sweet Illirae. Her two best friends. Gone._

A tall fair-haired woman walked briskly down the hallway, hardly looking at where she was going. The message had not made any sense at all, and it was her day off from the Nine Day Watch, but the Voice of the Clayr had summoned her and she had to obey. As she navigated the winding hallways of the Glacier, Thess shook her head. There had obviously been some grave error with the message. It couldn't possibly be true, no matter how badly she wanted it to be. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't...

She knocked on the door before entering, and stopped dead on the threshold.

"It's true," she gasped.

Aumel, the elderly Voice of the Clayr, was standing on one side of a chair. Kneeling on the other was the healer, Girsie. And sitting in the chair was a slight woman wearing a soiled white dress under a tattered cloak. Her hair was shorn and her cheeks were hollow, but there was no mistaking her.

"Illirae," whispered Thess as she stepped across the threshold. "It really _is_ you." She was so amazed that she did not mind how silly she sounded.

The woman in the chair smiled. "My old friend." They clasped hands warmly, and Thess was surprised at how fragile the other woman felt. For the first time she noticed the scars on Illirae's scalp, ragged pink flesh that prevented her hair from growing back properly.

Girsie made an impatient noise and Thess obediently stood back as the healer administered a tonic. Illirae certainly looked ill. Thess could not even imagine what she had gone through. The Nine Day Watch had glimpsed her now and then, only to confirm that she was serving at the Palace. But rarely now did they turn their Sight to Belisaere.

As the healer tended to Illirae, Aumel drew Thess aside. "A patrol of Rangers found her," the Voice explained in an undertone. "She was on her way home – on horseback!"

"Really?" Thess glanced over the old woman's shoulder at her friend. "Seven years," she marvelled, shaking her head.

"While we waited for you, she told us what had happened." Aumel hesitated. "On their way back from Estwael, she and Marin were overtaken by northerners, as we suspected. She was enslaved, and eventually liberated by the King."

"And Marin?"

The old woman shook her head silently, and Thess closed her eyes, remembering.

_A young woman held between two men wearing furs, screaming. Guttural laughs as her hair was slashed from her head in long bloody locks. On the ground a few paces away, another figure lying crumpled, bloody, limbs resting in unnatural positions. More men gathering around the figure, raising their weapons, bringing them down –_

Thess came back to the present, blinking tears away from her eyes. Aumel was looking at her in concern. "I Saw, years ago," she said finally, in control once more. "But I refused to believe it. May I stay with her?"

The Voice smiled thinly. "Of course."

They walked back to Illirae, and Thess drew up chairs for her and Aumel. With many an admonition to the patient about overexerting herself, the healer finally left the room.

Illirae was gazing at the crackling fire, clutching the blanket that had been wrapped around her shoulders. A sword was leaning against the side of her chair. Thess had been a Ranger with Marin, but she could never recall Illirae ever wearing a weapon. The Clayr regarded her old friend. To think of Illirae, so quiet, so shy, having to watch those northerners butcher Marin's body, and then becoming a slave herself, was almost more than she could bear. Those barbarians had shorn off her hair, the one thing that poor Illirae had been so proud of. Thess yearned to comfort the other woman, but was afraid to touch her.

"Now that you are home," said Thess, trying to sound cheerful, "what are you going to do first?"

"Well, I would like a nice hot bath," answered Illirae. And then her features seemed to crumple, and soon she was sobbing into her hands. Thess abandoned her reservations and embraced her old friend, holding her tightly. Over Illirae's shoulder she could see Aumel, and in addition to the older woman's obvious concern was an expression of worry. Thess also wondered just how deeply Illirae had been affected by her experiences, to break down like this.

Soon Illirae's sobs had diminished, and Thess resumed her seat. It was Aumel who next broke the silence. "We are truly glad to have you back with us," she said in a gentle voice. "We Saw that you were serving at the Palace."

"Did you?" Illirae's voice was mild, but there was some bitterness in the smile playing around her mouth. She wiped the last traces of tears from her cheeks. "I wonder that you Saw that much, as you have cut yourself off from Belisaere, and indeed the rest of the Kingdom."

Thess stared at the other Clayr. She had never heard Illirae speak like that before. But then, her friend had changed since they had last seen each other. So had she, in all probability. "There is something you want to tell us," she observed.

Illirae looked at her. "Yes. Many things," she confirmed. "The Clayr have been evading this conflict long enough. I understand, Aumel, believe me I do. Isolated here in the Glacier, only interacting with the outside world through visions and scattered reports, it is all too easy to remain uninvolved. But I spent five years at court, and I have seen things with my own eyes that tell me it is time for us to act."

Aumel was looking doubtful. "The Clayr have declared neutral in the conflict between King Rothain and Captain Betrys."

"This extends beyond that," Illirae insisted.

Thess looked at the Voice of the Clayr imploringly. Weak, ill, and possibly raving as she was, Illirae did have a point. Aumel nodded. "Go on, then. I will listen."

Illirae settled back in her chair with a sigh. "Thank you." She was silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts and her strength. Thess noticed that her old friend's hands were trembling, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. "About two years ago was the beginning of the King's madness. It started slowly, but eventually he became more reclusive and paranoid. He began the practice of being surrounded by a diamond of protection at all times. He refused to hold audiences or even attend court, and his public appearances were extremely limited. The King also suspected the Queen of having an affair. There were rumours that his suspicions and his madness were somehow linked, but there was nothing conclusive. Then a year ago, the Queen and her alleged lover were executed. Five months ago, after a failed assassination attempt on the King, Captain Betrys left the Palace and was declared a rebel."

Aumel held up a wrinkled hand. "We know all of this," she said patiently.

"Perhaps," assented Illirae, bowing her head. "You know the facts, but you did not experience the events. You have not seen Rothain in person since his madness began. I will not lie to you, Aumel. It is terrifying. Most of the courtiers are gone, having returned to their estates to wait out this conflict. The Chancellor is barely holding the Kingdom together, and there are murmurs even in court of rebellion. The Abhorsen arrived at the Palace, and I fear that the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, Favilliel, was imprisoned for my sake."

"Wait – for _your_ sake?" asked Thess, amazed.

"We have Seen much of Favilliel," Aumel murmured thoughtfully, before nodding. "Go on."

"I pledged five years of service to Rothain," said Illirae, and her eyes darkened, "but at the end of my term he refused to release me. It was Favilliel who removed my bond, and allowed me to escape from the Palace, with the help of the guardsman Madran. I feel I owe them my life. Another woman, Kelsa, went with me."

Illirae stopped speaking abruptly, and Thess knew better than to ask questions. Her friend was visibly upset.

"On my way to the Glacier," she continued, her voice trembling, "I stopped at the house of Dagald, who was once a Senior Archivist. He gave me the document in my bag."

At a glance from Aumel, Thess got up and opened her friend's bag, rummaging around until she found a thick scroll tied with a purple ribbon. "What is it?" she asked, turning it over in her hands.

"A copy of the document that caused the King to banish the archivists," said Illirae. Aumel and Thess looked at it with renewed interest. "The archivists had chronicled the King's changes in behaviour, did years of research, and came up with a plausible theory that they presented to him."

"And what was that theory?" prompted Aumel.

Illirae took a deep breath. "They proposed that someone was working magic on the King."

The room was silent other than the soft crackling of the fire. At first Thess was inclined to laugh. Whoever heard of a spell being worked on the King, the most powerful Charter Mage living? But she saw the serious expression on Illirae's face, and remembered the reports of the King's rapid descent into paranoia and madness. Could somebody have put a spell on him? Somebody close to him? Was that person controlling him still?

Thess gazed into the fire, her thoughts racing. This was crucial. If it was true that the King was under some sort of influence, then he had not been responsible for his actions. Refusing Illirae's freedom, quarrelling with Captain Betrys, and worst of all having his Queen put to death – this could all be due to the vile machinations of somebody else. Somebody out there, unknown, was truly guilty for bringing the Kingdom to its knees. The implications were enormous. No longer could the Clayr stand by and watch.

She looked at Aumel, and the old Clayr's lined face was curiously emotional. "If you are right..." Aumel broke off with a sigh. "Well, then. This certainly changes things." Thess and Illirae watched as the old woman looked down at her clasped hands. "When we believed that the King had truly gone mad and one of the Charters was tainted, we decided to remain uninvolved. And why? Because King Rothain was the last of the Royal Family, and he has to rule if we want to uphold the Charters. But now, Illirae, if what you have discovered is true..."

Illirae spoke, pleadingly: "The Kingdom is unstable, on the very brink. We must get involved _now_ if we hope to save Rothain. It is our duty."

Aumel looked back and forth between the other two younger Clayr. "I fear you are right," she said heavily. "Earlier today, the Nine Day Watch Saw that Betrys will very soon march against Belisaere."

Thess gasped at the news. "What? She will attack openly?"

"That cannot happen!" Illirae burst out. "If there is war, the losses would be..." She shook her head, overwhelmed by the thought.

"And that is why we must act now, as you said," Aumel answered. "We should send an ambassador to Belisaere without delay. No, it cannot be you, Illirae. You must recover your strength. But it ought to be someone in whom we have an absolute trust." Slowly, the Voice and Illirae turned to the only other Clayr in the room.

"You mean – _me_?" Thess asked, flabbergasted.

"Yes," said Aumel. "You will go to Belisaere as the Clayr's representative. We have to plan this carefully, of course. I will need to speak to some of the other Clayr, and we need to decide what to do with the information you have brought us, Illirae. But our self-imposed isolation has come to an end. It is time for the Clayr to take action."


	21. Threat Unforeseen

_A/N: I'm supervising a sleepover this weekend, and I'll start replying to reviews on Monday._

_So now the Clayr are back in the game! Despite the title of this chapter, I'm sure quite a few of you – if not all – saw this coming. Enjoy!_

**Threat Unforeseen**

"_Attention!"_

_The sparring young men and women lowered their wooden practice swords and stood as straight as they could, panting with exertion. An expression of awe spread over the faces of several trainees as a small group of people entered the courtyard, one of whom was wearing a crown._

_A dark-haired young man nudged his friend. "Look, Madran. It's the King," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth._

"_I know," Madran replied. He watched as King Rothain, a man two years younger than himself – still a boy, really – passed through the courtyard and stopped to talk to their Sergeant. At the King's side was a Corporal who bore some resemblance to his friend. "Ciprian, isn't that your cousin?" he asked in an undertone._

_The other trainee gave a minute nod. "That's Ghalio."_

"_He seems to be on familiar terms with the King."_

"_He's in Rothain's personal guard," Ciprian replied. "They get along well. I think Ghalio has taken on the role of protective older brother, or something."_

_As everyone else watched the King chat with the Sergeant, Madran found his eyes drifting to Ghalio. Ciprian's cousin seemed indifferent to the importance of the people around him, perhaps a quality that had ingratiated him to the young King. His expression was slightly bored, and otherwise inscrutable. But his eyes... Madran was struck with the sudden thought that there was something terribly cruel and calculating in those eyes. Then like spark the impression was gone, as if it had never been there. Still, Madran could not shake the feeling that there was something impenetrable and dangerous about Ghalio._

The sound of raised voices echoed through the marble Palace halls, and Madran followed them, walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Duty was calling.

After being temporarily relieved of duty for his suspected involvement in Illirae's escape, Madran had been reinstated as Ensign. This seemed to be only one of the symptoms of a return to normalcy. Rothain was holding audiences, and the people of Belisaere were finally having their petitions heard. Funds were being put into projects like water and repairing the roads. And finally, taxes had been lowered, though not to the level they had been before the war. Still, it was a remarkable turnaround, and one that Madran suspected the Chancellor, the Abhorsen, and Captain Finessa were responsible for, though he did not know how they had gotten the King to change his mind.

The arguing voices increased in volume as Madran turned a corner. When the Ensign finally came to the entrance hall, he instantly spotted the source of the commotion: A man wrapped in a tattered dark cloak was shouting at no less than six guards. The stranger was shabbily-dressed and sported several days' worth of beard on his chin, and Madran wondered how a scruffy beggar like him had managed to cross the Palace threshold unchallenged. But watching him quarrel with the six tall men and women, Madran realized that, beggar or not, this man was someone to be reckoned with.

He drew closer, thus far unnoticed by the group. The guards had formed a circle around the man and were trying – unsuccessfully – to reason with him. It seemed that the stranger wanted a personal audience with Chancellor Oraz, which was interesting.

Madran cleared his throat, loudly. "What is going on here?" he demanded, fixing the guards with his commanding gaze.

The guards looked grateful at the interruption, and the opportunity to put the problem in the hands of the Ensign. "Sir," one of them hurried to explain, "this fellow –"

"I demand an audience with the Chancellor!" the man interrupted.

Another guard turned to Madran apologetically. "Poor beggar means the King. Now that His Majesty is giving audiences again –"

"I do _not_ mean the King!" the stranger bellowed, his eyes ferocious over his scraggly beard. "I know who's really in charge here!"

At that, the guards stared at the visitor, and Madran viewed him with a new respect. This couldn't be a mere vagabond off the streets. At the very least, he must have been able to convince the guards at the palace gates that he was someone to be seen. "And what is your name, sir?" he asked civilly.

The man lifted his chin. "Vansen, former Lieutenant of the Guard."

Madran nearly staggered with amazement, and the other guards looked equally as flabbergasted. It was incredible to think that this shabby tramp standing before them had once been a fellow officer, and their superior. Betrys' younger son was one of the last people Madran would expect to turn up in Belisaere. But the man had Vansen's brown hair, his hooked nose, his piercing eyes – and, Madran didn't doubt, if the cloak were drawn aside they would see the stumps of his arms.

"Very well," he said, managing a semblance of calm. "Please come with me."

Vansen followed him through the halls of the palace he had not entered for so long. "It feels strange to be back," he muttered, self-consciously shrugging the cloak tighter around his body.

Madran glanced at him sideways. "Would you like some time to make yourself more presentable?" he asked neutrally.

A bitter smile flashed over Vansen's grubby face, and was gone. "No," he said grimly. "What I have to say cannot wait any longer than necessary."

At the door of the Chancellor's office the guards peered suspiciously at Vansen's unkempt figure, but at a nod from Madran they stood aside. The office contained several large desks at which clerks and the Master of the Seal were industriously sorting through piles of correspondence and copying out documents. Madran and Vansen proceeded to a door at the back of the room, ignoring the stares, and when Madran knocked he was instantly admitted to Oraz's personal office.

The Chancellor was standing over his desk with three clerks bustling around him. "Chancellor Oraz," said Madran, not wasting any time. "It is of the utmost importance that you speak with this man. Privately."

To the Chancellor's credit, he did not ask any questions. "Very well," the older man said, nodding slightly. "Leave us." The clerks bowed and filed past, giving Vansen curious looks.

The instant the door closed behind them, Madran said, "Chancellor, this is Vansen, son of the former Captain Betrys."

The old man started and gazed at Vansen, not saying anything. Slowly, Vansen shrugged back his cloak and lifted his arms. Madran could not help staring at the two bandaged stumps. "Thank you," said Oraz politely, having been given confirmation of his visitor's identity. He sat heavily behind his desk with a sigh. "Now, what do you wish to tell me?"

Madran retired to the corner of the room and watched as Vansen straightened up. Still a soldier. "Chancellor, I came to warn you," the man said firmly. "Things were safe enough when our two sides were at a standstill, but now something new has come up." He hesitated, eyes flickering to the ground, and took a deep breath. "Lieutenant Ghalio is a threat."

"Ghalio?" the Chancellor echoed. "The Abhorsen's nephew?"

"Yes," Vansen insisted. "I left the rebels because I felt I was of no use to them. But rumours travel faster than me, in my current condition." He gestured with the stumps of his arms. "Now I know that Ghalio used me, his old superior, to gain his current rank. He is dangerously ambitious, and ruthless in his quest for power. I was shocked to hear that Ghalio is urging my mother to openly attack Belisaere."

"He is _what_?" Oraz burst out.

"As a Lieutenant he has my mother's ear," said Vansen, speaking quickly. "If the rumours are true, then Ciprian was also a victim of Ghalio's schemes."

The Chancellor had regained his composure. "What exactly did Ghalio do to you?"

The former Lieutenant lowered his head. "He masqueraded as my friend after my demotion, bringing me cruelty disguised as words of comfort. And he brought me wine. I was wretched, and would do anything to lessen my feelings of shame. He brought me so low that I was no better than an animal, cut off from all of my friends – and my family."

"And Ciprian?" asked Madran, unable to keep quiet any longer out of concern for his old friend.

Vansen looked directly at the Ensign as he answered. "Ciprian replaced me as Lieutenant. I do not know how Ghalio was involved, but they say Ciprian was demoted for drunkenness. Ciprian, who would never in his right mind drink while on duty." Vansen turned back to the Chancellor, gesturing futilely with his mutilated arms. "I do not wish for this Kingdom to fall any more than you do, sir. Let me be frank. I have come to pledge my services to the Crown, such as they are."

There was a short silence during which Madran looked back and forth between the ruined soldier and the Chancellor. "The Crown accepts," said Oraz, rising from his seat. "Thank you, Vansen."

As soon as Madran was dismissed, he made his way to the dungeons to visit Favilliel. He had to take care he did not visit her too often lest Corporal Tralon report it and he be charged with conspiring with a traitor, but this could not wait.

Soon he was standing across the spelled bars from Favilliel repeating everything that he had heard. Almost before he stopped speaking, she was shaking her dark head. "How could anyone accuse Ghalio of telling Betrys to attack Belisaere?" she marvelled. "It does not make any sense. First, he is a member of the Abhorsen line. Second, he was one of the King's closest friends."

"But can you be certain?" Madran countered. "I was baffled too, but why would Vansen lie? Yes, he was a rebel, but he is a changed man. And if what he said is true, Ghalio ruined him."

A shrill laugh came from across the corridor: Lieutenant Padric. Madran looked over his shoulder at the barred door; that man had been a friend of Ghalio's, and now he was awaiting execution for attempting to kill the King. What could he possibly be laughing about? "Padric," he called, ignoring Favilliel's disapproving look. "Do you know something?"

"Don't encourage him," Favilliel protested. "He's mad."

Padric giggled thinly. "Nobody really knows Ghalio," he wheezed.

Peering across the corridor, Madran could barely make out a figure sitting in shadow. "_You_ knew Ghalio," he pointed out.

"Oh yes," the prisoner agreed. "I corresponded with him until I was put in here." Another piercing sent shivers down Madran's spine. "I will be executed tomorrow. I've nothing to lose."

Madran and Favilliel waited in breathless silence for the man to speak.

"There's something not many people know about Ghalio," said Padric, chuckling. "You want to know? It was Queen Irabel." Madran and Favilliel shared a startled glance. "As soon as he set eyes on her, he loved her. I was there. I knew. Maybe it wasn't love. I don't even know if Ghalio _can_ love." Another sputtering laugh. "In any case, he desired the young Queen. And when she refused his advances, he grew angry and vengeful."

The lone figure in the cell began to rock back and forth. It was Favilliel who asked, "What did Ghalio do?" Her voice echoed eerily through the stone corridor.

"Ghalio?" Padric looked up at them. "He was too smart to do anything alone. I helped him. I helped implicate the Queen and Corporal Dernic, her supposed lover."

"They weren't really lovers?" asked Madran, keeping his voice steady with difficulty. This could be the key to the King's madness. After all, it was Rothain's jealousy that had seemed to trigger the first manifestations of paranoia.

"The Queen and Dernic were friends, nothing more," Padric confirmed. He sniggered. "Isn't it funny that when Corporal Dernic was executed, Corporal Ghalio took his place as Lieutenant Vansen's most trusted officer?" He burst into a gale of sobbing laughter, pounding his fists on the cold stone floor.

Madran turned back to Favilliel. She did not look it, but he could tell that she was as terrified as he by this unexpected information. "The Queen and Dernic executed," he muttered. "Vansen's disgrace. Ciprian's demotion. And all because of Ghalio!"

Favilliel bit her lip and shook her head, apparently still unwilling to believe that her cousin could have been responsible for all of this. "Think of Ciprian!" Madran urged her, aware that he was being unusually demonstrative. But at the moment he did not care. "Nobody really knows Ghalio all that well, but we both know Ciprian."

Tears came to Favilliel's eyes and she angrily rubbed them away. "Yes," she admitted heavily. "You're right. The Ciprian we know would never drink on duty. And none of us know Ghalio. His father left the Abhorsen's House before I was born, and then there were those three years he spent wandering the Kingdom after his village was slaughtered by Northerners. But I –"

A step sounded in the corridor. It was close; Madran had not heard anybody approaching due to Padric's raucous laughter. "I have to go," he whispered, stepping away reluctantly. Favilliel just stared at him through the bars. This new information had hit her especially hard. "I'm sorry," he said, distraught. "I cannot be seen talking to you anymore, or we will both be in prison, and then what can I do to help you or Ciprian?" He longed to reach through the bars, run his hands through her hair, feel her arms around his neck. But the spells forbid it. He could only share a brief glance full of unspoken meaning before the approaching footsteps forced him away.


	22. Steel and Ivory

_A/N: After finding out what a jerk Ghalio is and seeing a bit of cuteness between Favilliel and Madran, we are now back at the Glacier!_

_Thanks for the corrections, Holly!_

**Steel and Ivory**

_The woman sat in the long rough grass of the field, gnawing hungrily on her ration of bread. Her feet ached from walking all day. She kept her eyes down, and flinched whenever a northern barbarian passed by. Some of the northerners were picketing their rough-maned horses, and others were busy pitching tents or kindling cooking fires. But there was no hot food for her or the rest of the slaves tonight._

_Most of the slaves were women, like her. And, like her, many of them had their hair shorn from their heads. At first she had thought the barbarians did this as a mark of ownership, or perhaps to humiliate their captives. But as she had listened to the stories of the other women, she had discovered that the barbarians only cut the hair of those who ran. Some women had been surprised in their homes, and others had stayed to fight, but a shaved head was a mark of cowardice. And she was a coward. Caught in this living nightmare, a slave to these barbarians, she was too cowardly to try to escape, and too cowardly to take her own life as others had done._

_The northerners themselves had long hair as rough as the manes of their horses. They wore outlandish clothes and furs, and carried wicked-looking spears. Despite their strange and fearsome appearance some were kind, and some were cruel. Her current masters were cruel._

_After her capture she had been taken to Yanyl and sold at the northerners' slave-market. It was there she had found out her value: two blankets, a spear, and a suckling pig. Her various owners had taken her to High Bridge, and as far south as Qyrre. The northerners had extended their occupation South down the Ratterlin, and there were rumours that they had surrounded the Abhorsen's House. The west of the Kingdom was the only safe place, and many Kingdom citizens had escaped there. Prince Rothain – or rather, King Rothain – was currently at sea with his fleet. The woman did not see any rescue coming soon._

_Nearby, the barbarian leader and one of his subordinates were having a loud discussion. The woman instinctively drew closer to the other slaves. She kept mostly to herself, but a few of the women understood the guttural barbarian language, and her curiosity overcame her timidity._

"_Hello Illirae," greeted one of the women. Her red hair fell past her shoulders: not a coward. Illirae suspected that Agthe had once been a Royal Guard, but for whatever reason her Charter Mark had been burned from her forehead. That was a blessing in disguise, for if the northern barbarians hated anything, it was Charter Mages._

"_What are they saying?"_

_Agthe frowned. "The leader wants to take us all to Sindle tomorrow. The subordinate would rather carry on to Belisaere. The leader says Sindle is almost abandoned, and there will be more buildings and spoils for the taking."_

_The women exchanged knowing glances. Spoils included people. The leader glanced over at the women and barked out a command. With a collective sigh they crammed the last of the bread into their mouths, got to their feet, and went to help set up camp._

The room had not been reassigned, and so far remained unchanged, waiting for a woman who would never return. The Clayr sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She was grateful that the Clayr had not yet cleared out Marin's belongings. Marin's body had never been found, so Illirae could not visit the Rift to pay respects to her friend. The Ranger's second-best bow hung on the wall, and on the desk a pot of smudgy pencils sat beside a thick pad of creamy paper. Illirae did not look through it, but she knew what she would have seen: portraits of various Clayr, amazing likenesses, familiar smiling faces. One portrait in particular, of a young girl with hair flowing past her waist and a flower tucked over one ear. Illirae's hand unconsciously ran over her shorn head, and she wondered for the hundredth time if she had made the right decision.

"I'm back home," she whispered, the last word catching in her throat. "I could help with the Novices again, take up my life where I left it, and let the others handle things." Charter, it was tempting. But she had told Aumel and the others that she wanted to remain involved, and the healer Girsie had cleared her after a sufficient rest period. Besides, it would not be easy to reintegrate herself back into the daily routine at the Glacier. The other Clayr were awkward and careful around her, even those she had once known well.

Illirae was one of the very few Clayr who had suffered during the war with the northerners, and the Chief Librarian had asked her to report her unique experience during the invasion. She had told about going to Estwael with Marin, staying at court there, heading back to the Glacier, and getting captured by the barbarians. She had even told about Marin being killed. She had told how the King freed her from slavery, and of her five years of service at the Palace, being released by the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and travelling north with Kelsa. She had told almost everything, more than she had thought she'd have the courage to relate. But what she did not tell were the horrors the barbarians had inflicted upon her during her enslavement.

Illirae dragged her thoughts away from this dark vein. At least the Clayr had listened to her: Thess had been dispatched to the Palace with instructions, and even if Illirae did not involve herself in the events to come, the information given by Dagald would be made known. Thess' visit to the Palace would set everything in motion. Much would depend on the Abhorsen-in-Waiting as well; the Watch had Seen that Favilliel would be instrumental in deciding the future of the Kingdom. Right now Favilliel needed help, and Thess could give it. Illirae had confidence that both women would do their part.

A knock on the door, and a messenger came in. "It's time," she said quietly, and handed over an ivory wand tipped with steel. Illirae had been to the Observatory many times, but previously she had only been summoned with the ivory tokens. This time she would be the Voice.

As she followed the messenger to the Observatory, Illirae reflected on what Aumel had told her. The Clayr had been having increasing visions of war, until it had dominated their Sight. They had Seen many futures with the Royal Line gone, the Kingdom overrun with Free Magic creatures, the Palace burned, and Charter Mages slain to break the Lesser Stones. But ever since Illirae had arrived at the Glacier, another future without war had been Seen. That future, that single thread among a multitude, was what they were trying to achieve. When Thess departed to warn the King of Betrys' impending attack, some of the war-torn futures had disappeared from the Clayr's Sight, notably those of Belisaere ruined and burning; they were on the right track. Only the Clayr could take action to prevent the war, but the question now was how, and when, and where. Over the past few days, the Watch had been trying to See exactly that. Watches of Ninety-Eight and a Hundred and Ninety-Six had failed. Today would be a watch of Seven Hundred and Eighty-Four, the largest that Illirae could ever remember being called. Girsie had cleared her just in time for Illirae to accept the position as Voice.

"In here."

The messenger bowed as Illirae passed through the door. She nearly stopped on the threshold; the room was filled with concentric rings of Clayr, women of all ages clad in white. Some smiled at her in recognition and welcome, and she relaxed and managed to smile back as she descended the thirty steps to the middle of the Observatory with shaking feet. She was conscious of the enormous honour being bestowed upon her, but there was still time to refuse.

Pain flashed in her hand, and Illirae realized that she was holding the steel and ivory wand tight enough to leave an imprint in her palm. She loosened her grip. Steel was for strength, war even. The material of weapons, though a Clayr's principle weapon was the Sight. Ivory, like the moonstones and white clothes, symbolized the Clayr's calling: they were blank canvasses upon which futures were inscribed, empty vessels that received droplets of vision.

Illirae had never been the Voice before, but she had participated in the Watch and knew what she must do. She raised her wand and cried, "Let us begin!"

"Let us begin!" the Clayr shouted back deafeningly. The closest ring of Clayr joined hands, and then the ring behind them, the flurry of movement radiating outward.

Illirae moistened her throat before calling, "Let us See!"

"Let us See!" the Watch roared back. Golden clouds of Charter marks welled up from the icy floor and entwined themselves about the white-clad bodies of the Clayr. Although an untalented mage, Illirae could feel the tremendous power within those marks. Finally the Clayr threw up their arms, causing the marks to blaze forward like molten sunlight, surging over the slanted ceiling and transforming the icy surface into a blazing ocean.

Illirae craned her head back and opened her eyes as wide as they could possibly go; the marks had melded and transformed into thousands of pictures that constantly flickered and overlapped, making up one larger picture as the Clayr combined their Sight. Then she was rising, rising up and into the vision.

She stood on the edge of a vast field, roughly square in shape. Three sides were edged with dense forest, and the left of the field rose up into a long sloping hill. With a gasp, Illirae recognized it as a place her barbarian owners had camped during her captivity. They had been on their way to Sindle. The memories were bittersweet; she had been in a dungeon in Sindle when Rothain and the Royal Guards had re-taken that city.

Shaking off these dark recollections, the Clayr focussed on her surroundings, taking in as many details as she could. Among the trees opposite the hill, Illirae could just distinguish several figures. There were more people in the field, including many Clayr Rangers, but Illirae's attention was immediately caught by three individuals. They were too far away to be positively identified, but they all had dark hair and were staring fixedly up the hill. Illirae turned her head to see what they were looking at. Several figures were emerging over the ridge, and she singled out a man on a horse. He was clad in armour and a red cloak, and something glinted on his head.

Before she could see anymore the field began to dissolve around the edges. The people were becoming blurry and indistinct, as if they were impressions seen out of the corner of the eyes. With a start Illirae found herself standing in the middle of the Observatory again as the vision broke apart. The Clayr were filing out of the room. Aumel detached herself from the nearest ring, and was joined by a few other women. The high-ups, as Marin had called them.

"Well?" said a leather-faced woman impatiently. "What did you see?"

Commander Evah of the Rangers had always intimidated Illirae, and she couldn't help stammering a bit during her reply. "A – a field," she gulped. She looked around at the expectant faces of the Clayr elders, and decided that she should be more specific. "A field to the west of the Sindlewood."

"You know this place?" asked Aumel.

Illirae nodded. "Yes. I've been there." She closed her eyes to recall the details of the vision, trying to piece together the brief and tantalizing clues revealed in such a short space of time. "On the southern side of the field was a dense forest. There were people in the trees."

"What people?" asked the white-haired Chief Librarian impatiently. This woman had questioned – or rather, interrogated – Illirae about her experiences during the invasion, and as such Illirae had developed a natural aversion to her.

The younger Clayr frowned, trying to remember. "They did not wear any uniforms..."

"The rebels," Commander Evah stated grimly.

"There were more people in the field itself," Illirae continued when Evah gestured impatiently for her to carry on. "Some were rebels, I suppose. But there were also our Rangers. Lots of them, stretched out across the field."

"How many Rangers?" The Commander was looking at her sharply, like a hawk about to swoop down on a rabbit.

Illirae fidgeted with her ivory wand as she tried to remember the details. "I – don't know," she admitted. Commander Evah let out an impatient noise. "But," Illirae continued, more strongly, "that wasn't the most important part of the vision."

The Clayr drew close to hear, and Illirae took an instinctive step backwards. "And what was the most important part?" asked Aumel, making a clear effort to be patient with this novice Voice.

"Three people with dark hair. They were looking up the hill at the north end of the field. More people, in red and gold, were coming over the crest of the hill. They were looking at one person in particular – someone on a horse. I – I think it was the King."

Silence greeted her words. Then, "That's impossible," Commander Evah stated flatly.

"King Rothain?" gasped the healer Girsie, her hands flying to her mouth.

"But it simply cannot be," the Chief Librarian was muttering to herself. "The King has never left the confines of the palace. Not in over two years."

"Illirae, are you saying that King Rothain himself is going to lead his army into battle?" Aumel asked with her trademark composure.

The younger Clayr raised her hands in the face of the condemnatory green and blue glares. "That's just what I Saw," she protested. "It was up to you and the Watch to pinpoint the exact moment that leads to the one thread of future without war. It seems that the instant the two armies come together, those three people are to look to the King."

The older women exchanged glances. "Such an insignificant action," murmured Girsie doubtfully.

"Right on the battlefield," the Chief Librarian sighed. "That's cutting it awfully close."

"I don't know about this," said the Commander, giving Illirae a look that clearly stated her low opinion of the young Voice's abilities.

"Evah, please," said Aumel. She looked around at the other women. "Well, it seems clear what we must do. Commander, assemble all of the Rangers that can be spared. Get ready to move out as soon as possible. Girsie, have enough boats prepared to transport them downriver."

Commander Evah gave a brisk nod and marched out of the Observatory, and the healer gave a short bow before sweeping out of a different door. Aumel then turned to Illirae, and gave a kindly smile. "Do you still want to see this through?" Illirae nodded. "Very well. You will be accompanying the Rangers as the Voice." Her soft brown hand enclosed over Illirae's gaunt one clutching the steel-tipped ivory wand. "Keep this as a symbol of your station. Now, go pack up your things. May fortune favour you, Illirae."

"Thank you." The younger woman inclined her shorn and scarred head at the assembled company, and managed a nervous smile before leaving the Observatory the way she had come. For once she knew what she must do. Illirae could practically feel a renewed sense of purpose infusing her stride. If Thess carried out her part, and if Favilliel did what she had to do, and if Illirae could see this vision through – then all would be well.


	23. The Blood Oath

_A/N: This chapter is one day late because... I lost track of the time? It's a lame excuse, but you don't really think about the days of the week when you're out of school. I also had a lot going on, with graduation (again!), and now I'm preparing for some exams. Don't you just love standardized tests?_

_I think it's high time we return to the Palace and our favourite guard!_

**The Blood Oath**

_As her mother tucked her in, the young red-haired girl asked, "What happened next?"_

_Her mother smiled. "What do you mean, Jyss?"_

"_The story you were telling me last night," the girl said impatiently. "The Princess was trapped in the Palace by her evil uncle, and the guard had been sent by the King to save her."_

"_Oh yes." The woman sat on the side of the bed and tenderly stroked the girl's hair back from her face. "Well, the guard broke down the door and he entered the room. For a moment he stood still, unable to move or speak. The Princess was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But her uncle's henchmen were after him, and he had to get her out of the Palace quickly."_

_The girl's fists clenched the edge of her quilt in anticipation._

"_He told the Princess to come with him, but she refused. You see, her uncle had tried to trick her many times before, and she did not know if she could trust the guard. He knew that he had to prove his loyalty to her beyond question. So he swore the blood oath."_

"_What's a blood oath?"_

_The girl's mother frowned in thought. "Well, it was used in ancient times by men and women who vowed to serve members of the Bloodlines. They would slice open their hand and swear on their blood to protect the King, Abhorsen, or Clayr. You cannot break a blood oath, Jyss. Like a promise," explained her mother, "but much, _much_ more important than that. Do you see?" The girl nodded in understanding. "So the guard got on his knees before the Princess, cut open his palm, and swore to defend her. And finally she believed him. Romantic, isn't it?"_

"_Can I hear the oath?" asked the girl, captivated._

_Her mother smiled. "All right."_

Sunlight was streaming through the window that looked out over the Bay of Belisaere. Jyss idly watched the boats with their many-coloured sails drifting in and out of the harbour, then turned back to her book. Caring for Rothain was more nerve-wracking than serving drinks to barbarian warriors during the invasion. As the King's personal aide time to herself was rare, so she had learned to make the most of these moments by relaxing quietly in her quarters.

A sharp knock sounded on her door, and Jyss barely had time to bid the person enter before it was opened. The Chancellor swept in, black and white robes billowing majestically. "There you are," he said in an unusually brisk tone of voice. "Quick – we haven't a moment to lose."

Without a second thought she followed him, buckling on her sword and looking longingly back at her book on the window-seat. "Is something wrong?" she asked, falling into step beside the old man. They were immediately flanked by two more guards.

The Chancellor smiled. "No. In fact, things might just be going right for the first time in years. It's the Clayr," he explained at her puzzled expression. "They've sent an ambassador. She arrived only moments ago, and has asked for an immediate audience with the King. You must get him ready, at once. I would not have disturbed you, Corporal, but you are the only one the King listens to when he is required to hold an audience."

Jyss nodded. "All right. Wait for me to admit you into the Golden Room, as usual."

"I am going to find the Abhorsen," said Chancellor Oraz. "You only have a few minutes."

Jyss broke off from the group and headed for the King's chambers at a rapid trot. Because time was of the essence, she would have to go through court rather than take her usual path around it. The men posted on either side of the open doors nodded as she passed; by now she was well-known by the rest of the Guard. Jyss took a deep breath, fixed an urgent expression on her face, and made her way purposefully across the wide marble floor. Courtiers glanced curiously at her, but assumed that she was just a Royal Guard on an errand and did not hinder her.

As she crossed the center of court, sidestepping small knots of noble individuals, Jyss noticed someone approaching her. A quick glance confirmed it: Lord Ivor. Corporal Jyss had been avoiding court ever since her arrival because of this man. Corporals Sabel and Pheran had warned her that people might try to influence her because of her position. Ivor's rebel sympathies were well-known. Moreover, he was sharp enough to know that she was the King's aide and therefore someone who could give him personal information about Rothain.

Thinking quickly, Jyss altered her trajectory so that she slipped behind the long buffet table. Ivor pressed on, manoeuvring around lords and ladies with muttered apologies, but before he could skirt the end of the table Jyss had reached a side door.

As she hurried down the hall to the King's quarters, mentally thanking the Charter for that narrow escape, Jyss wondered why the Clayr had picked this time of all times to send an ambassador. Perhaps the tensions with the rebels had escalated too much, and the strange ladies who lived in the Glacier had decided to intervene. But the least they could have done was give Belisaere sufficient notice of the ambassador's arrival! Not everyone had the Sight.

The guards at Rothain's door let her through after checking her Charter mark, and after a short search Jyss found the King in his bedchamber. He was lying on the vast curtained bed fully-dressed, and was staring up at the ceiling. She walked cautiously up to the bed, which was large enough to hold a complete diamond of protection – and the King inside it – on top of the luxurious coverlet. "Your Majesty?" Jyss murmured, leaning forward. At the sound of her voice, Rothain turned his head and looked at her sleepily. It was one of his better days, then, when he was not completely oblivious. All the better, if he was to hold an audience with the Clayr.

"A very important visitor would like an audience with you," explained Jyss, keeping her voice light and calm. Rothain responded best when she was perfectly calm. "Shall we get you ready?"

Finally the King nodded, and the diamond of protection vanished. Jyss could almost have cried with relief that he had not asked who the visitor was. Given their neutrality concerning the rebellion, the Clayr were something of a taboo subject around Rothain.

Jyss helped the King to his feet and went to his closet, selecting a burgundy over-robe, soft leather boots, and an ornate sword belt. The king put them on with fumbling fingers as Jyss fetched his crown from its stand. Rothain resented anyone else dressing him, which resulted in his customarily shabby appearance. Initially Jyss had thought that the King did not like being coddled, but once when she had instinctively reached out to tie the topmost laces of his shirt, he had come down with a splitting headache that had lasted for hours. This strange episode had reminded her of their board harp duet, when just thinking of the Queen had caused him pain, and Jyss had realized that mentioning the Queen to Rothain – or even inadvertently reminding him of her – caused his fits.

Knowing that Queen Irabel had once helped her husband dress made Jyss feel oddly protective of Rothain. She handed him the crown, and her hand accidentally brushed the King's chest. He hissed in pain, recoiling from her touch.

"Majesty?" she said, alarmed. "Are you all right? Should I fetch a doctor?"

"Doctors," Rothain groaned, clutching his chest and shaking his head. "You cannot trust them. I sent the Court Doctor to Ancelstierre... Is the way clear?" Jyss nodded, deciding not to question him further. It was important now more than ever that he remain calm.

Given that Rothain would never be seen by others without his diamond of protection, a peculiar arrangement had been made for audiences. The Golden Room, once a gallery, had been refurbished for this very purpose. The King could enter it directly from his private chambers, and his visitors could enter from the hallway. Jyss held back the velvet curtain for Rothain, and they emerged directly onto a dais which held an ornately-carved chair – a substitute for the real throne. She saw that he was settled comfortably, and busily straightened his over-robe. It was the best she could do; there was nothing that could hide Rothain's pale clammy face, the dark circles around his eyes, or the large purple vein in his temple.

Jyss stepped back from the chair and cast a diamond of protection. She could feel Rothain probing the marks with a spell to test their strength, but that was nothing new. Anything to make him feel safe. Finally he gave a nod, and she walked down the room to the opposite door, and opened it.

Chancellor Oraz was standing before her. Behind him she saw the Abhorsen, Captain Finessa, and a tall blonde woman who could only be the Clayr ambassador. Jyss stood back and the Chancellor led the little group into the room, stopping a short distance in front of the dais. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head. "Allow me to introduce Thess, Daughter of the Clayr."

At that pronouncement Rothain's head snapped up, and he peered at the newcomer with his bright, feverish eyes. Under such a gaze Jyss would have felt most uncomfortable, but the Clayr Thess did not show it.

The woman took a step forward and sank into a deep curtsey. "King Rothain," she said respectfully, "I am sent by my kindred to renew relations between the Crown and the Clayr. We desire to have the three bloodlines working together, united once more."

Jyss, who had taken her usual post at the King's side, looked quickly at Rothain. He was still gazing at the Clayr, but with more curiosity than suspicion. The silence stretched on longer than was comfortable, and Chancellor Oraz was forced to break the silence: "The King welcomes you to Belisaere," the old man said.

The Clayr, Thess, gave a small smile. "As a sign of our good faith," she said, "the Nine Day Watch has instructed me to also inform you of our visions concerning the rebels."

Everyone in the room stirred at that. Jyss noted the Abhorsen and Captain Finessa exchanging glances. The Chancellor was looking at the King, who inclined his tousled head. "Go on," encouraged the Chancellor.

Thess cleared her throat. "This is what the Nine Day watch has Seen: Captain Betrys will very soon give orders for her troops to muster. They intend to march on Belisaere."

Jyss barely held back a gasp at that pronouncement, and she noticed that the Abhorsen's hand automatically twitched towards his sword. The Chancellor, however, wasted no time. "Captain," he barked. "Have the guard ready to move out and meet the rebel force." Finessa was gone in a flash. "We thank you, Thess of the Clayr, for this information," the Chancellor continued hurriedly. "The King dismisses you for now. I will have someone show you to your quarters."

Jyss' head was buzzing with this new information. Why was Betrys taking such drastic action? And why now? Someone touched her arm, and she looked up to see the Chancellor. Everyone else had gone. "We shall be busy the next few days, getting ready to move out," he told her gently. "See that the King gets some rest, and find out if he will accompany his army."

When he had left Jyss dissolved the diamond of protection and took Rothain back to his quarters. He leaned heavily on her arm, and Jyss was surprised at how weak he seemed. Without a word exchanged between them she took him to the sitting-room and helped him into his favourite chair by the fire. The King did not ask for a diamond of protection, so Jyss did not cast one; she tried not to put them up so often when he was alone in his quarters, and they were making progress in that respect. Jyss was quite proud of herself for that.

The sitting-room had no windows, and the large crackling fire and heavy tapestries caused Jyss to feel stifled. It seemed to comfort Rothain, though. As she built up the fire, Jyss peered at the King who was gazing into the flames. He looked exhausted and ill.

"That's all right," said Rothain, and Jyss left the fire alone. The King's speech was slurred with fatigue, but he sounded almost normal. Not a madman. Just a sick man.

"Will you be riding out with your army?" asked Jyss, putting the room in order. The King did not answer. "I suppose you will need some time to think about it," she commented.

"We cannot maintain a diamond of protection if I ride," said Rothain. Jyss started; she was not accustomed to her questions being answered so promptly.

"That is true," she admitted.

The King appeared to be thinking. "I ought to go," he muttered. "But I cannot have the Abhorsen there. He can ride and camp ahead with the scouts."

Jyss did not question this strange demand. In her opinion, actually getting the King to leave the palace and ride out with his army was an enormous accomplishment. During these past weeks she had seen Rothain gradually improve. There were greater moments of lucidity, like now, when he actually was aware of what was going on. He still required the Chancellor's help to hold audiences, but at least he consented to see people on occasion. And his outbursts of temper were growing more infrequent. Jyss was only concerned about his deteriorating health. Although she encouraged him to eat and get enough fresh air, his strength continued to decline. Jyss suspected that he was suffering from some disease, perhaps the same thing that was ailing his chest, but the King adamantly refused to see a Healer. That was where he drew the line, and Jyss had quickly learned never to breach the subject.

"Is there anything else?" asked Jyss, standing across the fire from Rothain. She waited patiently for an answer.

The King sighed, still staring into the fire. "I cannot remember..." His voice trailed off, and Jyss held her breath, waiting. At length Rothain shook his head. "I cannot remember things," he confessed. "Or I remember dreadful things, and they terrify me. It gets even worse in my dreams." Finally he turned to Jyss, and she was shocked by how frightened he looked. "What is happening to me?" he asked, a note of hysteria rising in his voice.

Jyss had never felt more helpless. She could not answer him, but she knew she had to do something. She had sworn to serve the Crown, and here in the privacy of his quarters Rothain was looking to her for consolation.

She took two steps forward and knelt at the King's feet. Slowly, the young guard drew the long dagger from its sheath at her side. Holding the leather-wrapped handle in one hand, she slit her palm and clenched her fist so that bright red drops leaked between her fingers. She drew words from the depths of childhood memory: "I hereby swear my allegiance to King Rothain, the lawful and rightful King of this realm. I will bear faith and true allegiance to his Majesty, and will defend him to the utmost of my power. No person has the power to absolve me of my oath. This I swear by my blood." Rothain placed a hand on her head in blessing, and Jyss closed her eyes. She had sworn the ancient blood oath, and was now absolutely devoted to this lost young man, no matter what the outcome.


	24. Between Two People

_A/N: Back in prison with the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Poor Favilliel has had nothing to do these past few chapters but sit around and carve pictures into the walls!_

**Between Two People**

_The young woman watched the festivities, unable to keep a smile from her face. It was not every day that the King got married. Among the people crowding the dance floor, she could distinguish the Royal couple by the King's crown. Lady Irabel was extraordinarily beautiful, and Rothain seemed quite taken with her._

"_Oy! Favilliel!" The young woman sighed and turned to see her brother elbowing his way through the crowd towards her, trailed by another guard. "Favilliel, meet my very good friend Madran." Her brother pushed the other man forward, then pretended to spot someone. "Oh!" he exclaimed, waving to the imaginary person. "I have to go – be right back!" He tipped Madran a huge wink before running off._

_Favilliel resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and glanced at Madran. Although his expression betrayed nothing, she could tell that he resented Ciprian leaving them under a pretence as much as she did. Favilliel was sick of her brother trying to set her up with his friends. But she had to be polite, and that meant making forced conversation with this fellow. "Beautiful wedding," she observed neutrally. "It gives the people something to celebrate after such a hard time."_

_The man glanced at her. "After the invasion, you mean? I call it good publicity." He nodded at the King dancing with his new wife. "I doubt those two really love each other. Lady Irabel was chosen for her connections, and because her father Lord Ivor is powerful and popular."_

_Favilliel was hit by a feeling of intense dislike for the young guard. He did not seem to show his emotions, like her cousin Ghalio who was always impassive. And that was something she hated. "Don't you think you're being a little pessimistic?" she asked, a hard note of reproach in her voice._

_The guard, Madran, pursed his lips. "I think love should be just between two people," he said stiffly. "They shouldn't have to tell everyone about it. And it definitely shouldn't be lied about."_

_The young woman cocked her dark head to the side, considering him. "Well," she said finally, "I have to agree with you there." He glanced at her, and miraculously a small smile ghosted over his lips. They turned and continued to watch the dancing Royal couple._

The silence was unnerving. Padric had been quietly executed a few days ago, and although her peculiar neighbour had annoyed her at times, Favilliel missed his presence. Even the laughter and mutterings of a lunatic were better than this cold and empty silence. Before he had been taken away, though, Padric had given her plenty to think about. The disgraced Lieutenant had claimed that the assassination attempt on the King, the one that started this whole rebellion, had in fact been meant for Lieutenant Vansen.

This information had been so surprising that Favilliel was inclined to believe it was the truth. Apparently Ghalio had wanted to be Lieutenant, and had coerced Padric into trying to kill their superior officer. From his place in the Royal Box, Ghalio had made sure that Vansen was standing out in the open. But Padric had missed while aiming from the grounds of the archery tournament, and his arrow had struck the King's diamond of protection instead. In the following panic, Padric had apprehended some of the archers. A young Traveller whose father had been an Archivist made a convenient scapegoat: Kelsa, Favilliel had realized during the telling. Ghalio had seen the woman imprisoned for attempted regicide, and Padric had been put in charge of the investigation to ensure that blame did not fall upon them. Given the King's paranoia, it had never even been suspected that someone else could have been the intended victim.

This revelation, added to Padric's claims that Ghalio had been responsible for the Queen's execution, was almost too much to contemplate. The thought that Favilliel's own cousin could be guilty of so much was absurd. Favilliel wondered if Ghalio was also indirectly responsible for the King's madness, for according to Madran the symptoms had started when Rothain suspected his Queen of adultery. That madness had led to the civil war now hovering over the Kingdom.

But how could Ghalio have done all of that? _You do not know him_, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. _After his parents were killed nobody knew where he was or what he did. He seemed changed after that. And he is powerful_. Favilliel shook her head. It was still difficult to believe that he had done it all. To do so would require great patience to work over many years, as well as cunning, and no small amount of luck. And all for ambition? It couldn't just be about the power. _It isn't_, that niggling voice insisted. _Ghalio loved the Queen, and she would not return his love._ Jealousy, then? Was this whole mess – the deaths, Rothain's madness, the rebellion, and the entire Kingdom up in arms – was it all due to Ghalio's anger over being scorned by a woman? In the legends and stories of romantic long-ago times such a thing might be possible. But now?

There was the familiar creak of a door and the sound of a step. Favilliel stood, stretching her cramped leg muscles. It was hours still before morning and breakfast. A visitor, then. She fingered the knife Ivor had given her, bound to her forearm under her sleeve.

A dim Charter light illuminated Madran as he walked down the corridor. The sight of his face and its distinctive composure was enough to calm Favilliel at once. Somehow his poise and detached manner, though often infuriating, always managed to reassure her.

When Madran caught sight of her waiting at the bars, the Charter light above his head brightened noticeably. "Hello Favilliel."

"Madran!" she hissed as he drew closer. "What happened to you?" A cut was healing on his lip, and dark bruises mottled his cheek.

"Don't worry about it," said the Ensign tersely. Favilliel scowled; Lord Ivor was trying to send her a message. She and Madran both knew that this attack would not persuade her to join Ivor, but it angered her nonetheless.

"Favilliel, something – has come up." Madran stood as close to the bars as he dared, unable to reach through. This close, Favilliel could see that he was not as tranquil as he usually was. Not everybody would be able to notice that his breathing was slightly faster and his eyes were flickering about the hall more than usual, but Favilliel could.

"What is it?" she asked, suddenly fearful.

Madran's swift smile acknowledged his inability to hide his unease from her. But the smile soon disappeared. "I'm getting you out of here," he said in an undertone. "Right now."

Favilliel blinked; he knew how she felt about this. "Madran –"

"Rothain is not going to pardon you," he interrupted her. He gazed down the line of empty cells and lowered his voice. "Orders for your execution are being drafted as we speak."

So it had happened. Favilliel looked away. "If you are caught..."

"I don't care anymore," declared Madran. Now he gave her a frank look, and it alarmed Favilliel to see that his unshakeable composure was beginning to break down. Something desolate flickered in his brown eyes. "The army is preparing to move out," he said fretfully. "We received word that Betrys will soon give orders to attack Belisaere."

The news staggered the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, but she could not let it upset her, not when her friend and lover was so far from calm. With an effort she gathered her composure. "Madran," she soothed, looking gravely at him. "You must be strong. Whatever happens –"

"Don't say that," he said earnestly. His voice was ragged with growing desperation. "I cannot do this all alone. Ghalio, inciting Betrys to attack Belisaere, could bring the Kingdom to ruin. And you and I may be the only ones who know the full extent of his crimes. With you in here, accused of treason for something I also took part in – it is too much."

"If we are both imprisoned," she said firmly, "all will be lost."

Madran was shaking his head. "No. If _you_ remain imprisoned, all will be lost." He must have seen that she remained unconvinced. "I need you, Favilliel."

Her breath caught in her throat; she had never heard him say those words to anyone before. Favilliel nodded, unable to speak.

He sighed and briefly lowered his gaze. "Thank you." Then once again he was the imperturbable Ensign. "There is impending war and we are running out of time. What we need is more support, so that people will listen. But once we're gone from here the Kingdom will think us traitors, and the rebels see us as enemies. Right now the only person we can go to is Ciprian."

At the sound of her brother's name Favilliel twitched. "He was relieved of duty," she murmured. "Yes, I suppose that means that he would be free to join us..."

"And he is also one of Ghalio's victims. In any case, we have to get him out of there," Madran continued. "If I go to Ciprian alone, he will remember that I attacked him when ordered to infiltrate the rebel encampment. He is not likely to trust me. But between the two of us, we can do it."

The young woman stepped forward and gave the Ensign a grim smile. "All right. We'll find Ciprian, and then see if we can convince someone to listen to us. Now, how about getting me out of here? Could you bribe the jailor? That's how Ivor visited me."

"I don't think Corporal Tralon would risk his neck by going so far as to release you. And it would have to be a lot of money, which I don't have."

Favilliel frowned. "I suppose you could steal the keys, or force Tralon to let me out."

"I could," Madran admitted, "But that would be risky, and it could get messy. I want us to be out of here and well on our way before anybody even knows that you are gone."

"Very well," said Favilliel. She ran her gaze over the Charter-spelled bars. The golden marks twinkled at her malignantly. "Then let's find a way to open these things."

Once the decision was made, however, they found that breaking the Abhorsen-in-Waiting out of a Charter-spelled prison was easier said than done. There was a stretch of silence as they examined the stone cell on either side of the bars, performing the occasional whispered spell to aid in their search for a way out. Finally, Madran gave a sharp exclamation and Favilliel hurried over from where she had been inspecting the stone walls.

"Have you found something?"

"Yes – I think so," said Madran breathlessly. The Charter light hovering over his head bobbed up and down, betraying his excitement. "I've found the original spells cast by whoever built this prison. They're buried quite deep – hang on –"

Favilliel watched in breathless silence as Madran closed his eyes and placed his hand on the left-most bar of her cell. Charter marks ignited and streamed over the bronze, darting like fish and swarming up into his flesh. She could tell by the tightness of his mouth that the protective spells were paining him, but he did not let go. At long last Madran lowered his hand, and the expression on his face unreadable.

"Well?" she prompted him. "Did you find out how to open it?"

"Yes," admitted Madran heavily. He carefully flexed his hand. "To break the guarding spells from the outside, a member of a Charter bloodline is needed."

Favilliel blinked. Madran was a Charter Mage, but not a member of the bloodlines. She thought of the remaining members of her family. "Ghalio is out of the question," she murmured, thinking aloud. "My uncle will never consent, and Ciprian is too far away."

"The King is the only member of the Royal Family," Madran groaned, "and it'll be impossible to convince him of anything, let alone to let you out."

"Well," said Favilliel with a shrug, "that leaves only the Clayr."

Someone cleared her throat in the darkness. Favilliel jumped and whipped the dagger from her sleeve, and Madran whirled around. A bluish Charter light ignited in the darkness of the hallway, illuminating a tall woman wearing a moonstone circlet on her blonde head. "Do not be frightened," she said. In the ensuing silence she walked forward, smiling. "I am Thess, the Clayr ambassador," she explained.

"You – how –?" For the first time in a long time, Madran was speechless.

"I was sent by my friend Illirae," the blonde woman explained as she examined the spells on the bars. "She reached the Glacier safely, and we Saw that you would need help. My goodwill mission was a cover to get me into the palace."

With those words there was a sharp clicking sound, and Favilliel felt a warm gust of magic as the Charter marks vanished from the bars. Madran wrenched the door open and pulled her into a quick embrace. Then they turned to the Clayr.

"Forgive me for sounding ungrateful, but why did you let me out?" asked Favilliel.

The woman, Thess, smiled almost mischievously. "The Clayr have their own agenda," she admitted, "and that includes releasing you and letting you do what you will. Now, there is one further matter of business." Favilliel watched as she reached into the sleeve of her green robe. There was a flash of Charter magic, and Thess withdrew a thick scroll tied with a purple ribbon. "This is from Illirae," said the Seer, holding it out. "She wants you to open it when the two armies meet. Illirae will try to be there when it happens, but when I left the Glacier she was not certain that she would be well enough make it, and the scroll must be read then. That is imperative. Do you understand?"

Favilliel nodded and took the scroll, wondering what it contained. But she could worry about that later, when there was time for such a thing. Right now there was an impending war, and she and Madran had to find Ciprian. "Thank you," she said fervently.

The Clayr nodded. "Wear the hood of your cloak. I have seen to it that you will not be stopped. Your bells and sword are at the end of the hall, and there are three horses waiting at the side entrance."

"Three?" asked Madran.

"One for Ciprian," said Thess, tapping the side of her nose and smiling. "Now go. And good luck." Madran shook the woman's hand, and Favilliel kissed her swiftly on the cheek.

As she walked down the corridor Favilliel pulled up the hood of her cloak. Her way was finally clear, and all of this confusion over whose side she belonged to could be left behind. It was dangerous, but she and Madran were together. The familiar weight of sword and bells was reassuring, and the Abhorsen in Waiting felt ready to face anything. And as she cast a sleeping spell on the sentries at the door, Favilliel could not help thinking that after her escape the jailer, Corporal Tralon, was going to be the laughing-stock of the Royal Guard.


	25. Deadly With a Knife

_A/N: I apologize for the relative lateness of this chapter (though I still updated on a Saturday!); it was one of the newer ones I'd decided to insert, so I had less time to write and edit. Oh, and if you want to see some holy-crap-that-is-awesome Old Kingdom fanart, check out the work by charter-magic (total epicness), RoseMuse (nice and cartoony), lberghol (cute sketches), and Falarsimon (love his bells) on deviantart._

**Deadly With a Knife **

"_Hey you – move!"_

_A hand grasped his shoulder, and the young dark-haired man whirled around, drawing his knife in one smooth motion and bringing it up to the throat of – a Royal Guard? There was the "shing" of metal on metal, and instantly he was surrounded by half a dozen more guards, some levelling their swords at him, and others with Charter spells crackling half-cast between their fingers. Immediately he dropped his knife and raised his hands._

"_Wait! Stop!" The Sergeant ran up. "You will have to excuse the trainee," he said to the Royal Guards. "He has a reputation as a dangerous man, and you never, _ever_ sneak up on him."_

"_We understand, Sergeant," said the Guard who had been threatened with a knife. She glared at the young man. "It's just that we were escorting the King through the courtyard and –" _

"_That was quite impressive." The guards stood to attention, and the dark-haired man was shocked to see that the King himself had come over. He was very young. "What is his name?"_

"_Ghalio, Your Highness," said the Sergeant. "One of our best trainees. Deadly with a knife."_

"_Where did you learn such skills?" asked the King, obviously curious._

_The dark-haired man shrugged. "I got quick reflexes during the barbarian invasion. I had to shift for myself." He answered the unspoken question on the King's face: "My entire village was slaughtered, including my parents. That's why I was wandering around alone."_

_A shadow passed over the King's face, and the trainee remembered that this young man's family had been killed in front of him when the Palace was breached. The King turned to the Sergeant. "Notify me when his training is complete. I wish to number him among my personal guard."_

In the shade of the palisade wall Ghalio ate his measly ration of bread and meat, taking small bites and chewing longer than necessary to make the food last. He had taken Ciprian's portion to his tent, and had been pleased to find his cousin utterly miserable. It was pitiful, especially from a relative of the Abhorsen. Unlike Vansen Ciprian had not touched a drop of wine since his demotion, but he had turned in on himself. During training Ghalio had observed that habitually-cheerful Ciprian was always internalizing his true feelings. To the other trainees he was a roguish jokester, but in front of Ghalio Ciprian had dropped this persona. Right now the effort to appear unaffected after his fall from grace was taxing the younger man, and Ghalio was confident that his cousin was now so demoralized that he could be considered safely out of the way.

Ghalio swallowed his last mouthful of bread and took a sip from his canteen, watching a small group of soldiers joking and laughing as they ate lunch and played five-stones. He felt no urge to join them; even as a trainee he had never socialized with his peers, and from an early age he had been taught never to depend on anybody else. Before Ghalio's birth there had been a falling-out between his father and the Abhorsen. Despite his aunt's efforts to reconcile her brothers, his father had left the House and married a woman in a small village, becoming the local Charter mage. Although he shared their blood, was a talented Charter mage, and could sense Death, Ghalio felt no strong attachment to his father's family. When Ghalio's entire village had been slaughtered, he had refused his aunt's offer of a place at the Abhorsen's House. Homeless and parentless, a nineteen-year-old Ghalio had struck out into the wilds of the Kingdom. Those had been dark and dangerous times, and even now nobody knew where he had travelled or what he had done for those three years.

The soldiers' conversation was suddenly punctuated by angry shouts, and Ghalio looked up to see one man tackling another to the ground. The dark-haired Lieutenant got to his feet and spotted another officer dashing over – that young idiot Corporal Hallam. The Corporal forced himself between the two brawling soldiers only to earn himself a misdirected punch to the jaw. Ghalio reached the group and grabbed one of the soldiers by the scruff of the neck. He pulled him back, dodging to the side as the other man instinctively threw out an elbow, and propelled him into the palisade wall. A swift kick to the other soldier's legs took him down too.

"Oi, what are you – _Lieutenant_!"

Upon recognizing Ghalio, the soldier sprawled against the wall got swiftly to his feet and stood to attention. The other soldier scrambled up, favouring his left leg. Ghalio looked at the two men, and then their companions. "What was going on here?" he asked, his voice low and even.

A Lancepesade took a nervous step forward. "Alick threw the first punch." She gestured at the man Ghalio had knocked into the wall. "He caught Leorn taking some of his food."

Ghalio looked at Alick, who remained at attention, and Leorn, who gazed sullenly at the ground. Leorn wasn't defending himself, so he had probably been caught red-handed. Meanwhile, that fool Hallam was finally getting up and dusting himself off; a bruise was forming on his chin. "You were all witnesses," said Ghalio to the other soldiers. "Do you agree with the Lancepesade?" There were nods and murmurs. Ghalio turned to Hallam, who still looked slightly dazed. "Corporal, take Leorn to the gates. Ten lashes and reduced rations for a week as punishment for stealing." He turned to the other soldiers. "Dismissed."

Ghalio was gratified to see that they were regarding him with increased respect. Raising the severity of punishment for Leorn had been a gamble. Supplies were low and only yesterday they had disciplined two soldiers for thieving from a farm. There was growing concern among the rebels that support from the Kingdom citizens was diminishing. On top of that, the soldiers were getting restless and there was considerable pressure upon Betrys and the officers to end the stalemate. However, Ghalio's quick and decisive action during the scuffle seemed to have paid off, and now the soldiers respected him even more. They did not like him; he knew about the whispers and the rumours, but that came with having a mysterious past and deadly reflexes. That did not matter; he did not need the soldiers to like him – he only needed them to follow him.

"Ghalio." A man detached himself from the shadows of the palisade wall.

"Hello Anthone." Ghalio turned the corners of his mouth up into something resembling a smile.

The older man inclined his head. "The Captain wishes to speak with us."

"Very well." Ghalio fell into step beside him. Anthone was an able officer in his own right, but too cautious. The soldiers wanted a leader who could end this rebellion quickly and decisively, not one who would exhaust every option before considering open battle. Now Ghalio had the soldiers, and he very nearly had Betrys. With Ciprian depressed and Vansen gone, the only person really against him was Anthone. Getting rid of him too would look suspicious, but for once Anthone's loyalty to his mother could work against him. If Ghalio could convince Betrys to go along with his plans, then he would not have to worry about the other Lieutenant.

"Your skills are sharp as ever." Ghalio raised an eyebrow, and Anthone shrugged. "I saw the fight. Alick is a big man, but you threw him into the wall like it was nothing."

"Something I picked up during the invasion," the dark-haired man grunted.

Anthone looked at him sidelong. "You have quite the reputation as a dangerous man."

Ghalio gave a short laugh. "Only to my enemies."

Inside the Captain's tent Betrys was pacing, hands clasped behind her back, and she looked up briefly as they entered. "Thank you for coming. Here's the situation," she said without preamble. "Resources are low, the stalemate is stretching on, and we are beginning to lose support from the people. Lieutenant Ghalio," she said, abruptly turning on her heel, and the dark-haired man straightened up. "I've been considering your proposal to openly attack Belisaere." Anthone shifted slightly, but said nothing. "However," Betrys continued, "it is a radical course of action, and not one to be taken lightly. At this point in time an open attack would be costly for both sides. You two are my trusted Lieutenants, and I want your thoughts before I make my decision."

Behind his back, Ghalio's fists clenched. "Forgive me, Captain," he said smoothly, controlling his excitement, "but now is the perfect time for such a move. The King has not had time to increase his forces, and our men and the Royal Guard are evenly matched."

"They have three platoons and we have two," Anthone broke in, unable to remain silent any longer. "How is that an even match?"

"I would put my money on Captain Betrys and the two best platoons than Finessa and the three worst any day," reasoned Ghalio. "Also, we are not without allies in Belisaere." At Anthone's questioning look, he added casually, "I speak of Lord Ivor."

"Ivor!" Anthone exclaimed. Apparently Betrys had not told her son about her conversation with Ghalio only minutes after his promotion. The younger man felt some pleasure in that.

"He is still at court, and has grown very popular," said Ghalio. "As the father of the late beloved Queen, his is a strong voice amongst the multitude united against Rothain."

"How do you know this?' demanded the older man, looking at Ghalio suspiciously.

"I have my sources."

Anthone snorted. "Sources at Belisaere? And you so close to the King before the rebellion..."

"Lieutenant!" Betrys said sharply, and her son was silent.

"Lord Ivor is a natural leader," continued Ghalio, "and an old friend of yours, Captain. This past year he has spoken out against the King, and I am certain that he would be happy to join our cause once we began." He hesitated for a fraction of a second before playing his trump card: "And in the event of our victory, it is only natural that you and he would be co-regents."

At this remark Captain Betrys appeared thoughtful, and Ghalio knew that she had never considered that possibility before. The woman was over sixty, and getting old for the battlefield. There were far worse ways for a soldier to retire than becoming co-regent of a Kingdom recently liberated from a mad ruler.

Anthone, however, looked furious. It was obvious that he did not approve of Ghalio's plan, nor of the favour Betrys was showing him. For the son of the Captain, this was far more than professional jealousy. "Please note, Captain, that I do not support Lieutenant Ghalio's strategy," he said stiffly. "We've withdrawn our forces to an unassailable position and should wait for the King's parlay – or at least for him to attack us first, which would make him the enemy. We are already branded as traitors, and cannot risk alienating our support by making an untimely first move. We have been at this standoff for nigh on half a year, and can go on for longer."

"The people are tired of this inaction, and they want us to do something," Ghalio shot back. "The farmers are giving us less and less, and every day another soldier is flogged for thieving. We cannot wait, for if we do not act soon the people will turn against us. What was the point of the rebellion if not to act? And now, finally, we are ready for battle, and we cannot hesitate."

The two Lieutenants glared at one another, and the Captain's pensive silence continued. Finally, she looked up at them. "Prepare the soldiers to move out. We will march on Belisaere."

Ghalio was elated, and he could tell that Anthone was upset, but the two of them hid their feelings as best they could and bowed. They had been given their orders. Now there was only one loose end he had left to tie up.

Once outside of the encampment gates, Ghalio struck off down the hillside. The guards did not ask any questions. As a Lieutenant he had the power to go where he pleased and when he pleased, something that would prove invaluable for what was coming up next.

At the edge of the trees Ghalio spotted what he had been looking for. He raised his hand, and the figure waved back. "Sino," he greeted the old man. "Good of you to agree to meet me out here."

"It's a pleasure," the Sergeant replied, grinning. "What would you like done this time?"

"In a minute," said Ghalio. He glanced up the hill and threw an arm around Sino's shoulders. "Walk with me." They turned their steps into the trees. "You are certain that you were not seen?"

Sino chuckled. "Positive. There's a few tricks left in this old dog yet."

"I knew I could count on you." Ghalio looked around: they were alone in the woods. "I have something to speak to you about," he said, lowering his voice. Sino cocked his head to the side, paying close attention. "There is someone who knows what we've been up to."

The old man gasped. "But I never told anyone!" he burst out. "We were so careful, too. It's impossible! How could this have happened?"

"I do not doubt your loyalty or discretion," Ghalio soothed, and his right-hand man fell silent. "Nevertheless, the fact remains that someone knows everything – how we kept sneaking Vansen wine, how we got Ghalio drunk – everything."

Sino was shaking his snowy head. "We're done for," he moaned.

"Not yet," said Ghalio. "You see, this person has not told anybody else. But really, it is only a matter of time. We just need to... _prevent_ him from divulging his knowledge. Not bribes," he said as Sino opened his mouth. "Something more permanent." The bearded man watched as the full meaning of his words sank in. Sino's eyes widened, and he gaped at Ghalio soundlessly like a ridiculous fish. "It is the only way to be sure," Ghalio urged.

Finally the old man sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "I suppose so," he muttered.

But Ghalio pressed him. "So you agree that this man ought to be killed?"

Sino nodded, more reconciled to the idea. "Yes, sir. I agree."

"Good." Moving quickly, Ghalio's grip tightened around Sino's shoulders as his other hand slipped a knife between his ribs. Sino struggled, scrabbling against Ghalio's cloak, but the younger man held him firmly. As the Sergeant's legs gave way Ghalio allowed them both to sink onto the damp forest floor. He looked down at the other man, ignoring the groans and gurgles, and watched the life fading from his eyes. When the familiar pang of Death signified that it was over, Ghalio let the old man to slip from his arms. He cleaned and sheathed the knife, and covered the body with leaves; it would not be found until the next morning at the earliest. And then the murder could be attributed to wandering thieves, or perhaps a quarrel between soldiers.

As Ghalio walked back up the hill, he reflected that it had been a while since he had killed someone with his own hands. It did not bother him; it had to be done. Everything was in motion now, and if things went as Ghalio expected – if they won this war and took the Palace, if Betrys and Ivor united and came into power, if he managed to survive the upcoming conflict – then he would witness Rothain's fall, the Abhorsen's humiliation, and the rise of a new power with him pulling the strings. Ghalio allowed himself a triumphant smile, and as he passed through the gates the guards wondered why their Lieutenant was laughing.


	26. A Moment of Truth

_A/N: I went camping this weekend (no technology!), hence the sort-of-late update. It seems like all I'm doing these days is coming up with excuses... but at least I've managed to maintain my "one chapter per week" goal! It's one of the first times I've updated a multi-chapter fic consistently (except for my Reservoir Dogs trilogy on my other account that was just too fun to write)._

_Right, so Ghalio is a slimeball, and now we're going to return to our poor demoted Lieutenant._

**A Moment of Truth**

_The forest was dark and treacherous. A young dark-haired man tripped over a root and just managed to catch himself against the trunk of a tree. The Sergeant had woken the trainees for this outdoor survival exercise. They had been split into two teams, and their objective was to stalk and tag members of the opposite team. In the woods. In the middle of the night. The young man was separated from his group, and he would have liked to cast a Charter light to help him find his way, but that would betray his location to the opposing team._

_Suddenly he felt a strange sensation in his head, like the soft ringing of a bell. The man smiled; he and his friend had established a spell in case they got lost, a magical call that could only be heard by the two of them, but this was the first time that they had used it. Sketching a Charter mark with one hand and shielding its light with the other, he sent it out into the woods. Soon he received a reply, and following the calls he eventually met a fellow trainee. The other man was covered in dirt and grime, but smiled when he saw him. "Hello Ciprian," he whispered._

_The young man grinned. "Hello Madran."_

The faint magical call hit Ciprian like a glass dart. Madran was looking for him. But Madran couldn't be all the way out here in the middle of the woods. Ciprian shook his head; his senses were playing tricks again. Only yesterday he had mistaken the wind blowing through a crack in the rebel encampment walls for his sister's tuneless whistling. Maybe he too was going mad.

The magical call came again, tinkling gently in the back of his mind like an itch he could not scratch. Ciprian wished that it would stop. As if his disgrace was not enough, now his own hallucinations were torturing him. How embarrassing. Ever since his demotion the young man had experienced bouts of melancholy. He would spend entire days in his tent refusing to talk to anyone, or he would wander through the woods for hours. Ciprian was aware that he was losing weight, that he hadn't shaved, that he was neglecting himself. But he did not care.

"It doesn't matter," he said aloud to the forest, not knowing what he was really talking about. It was nice to be in the forest where things did not matter. And it was lonely. He liked that.

Ciprian looked down at his pale hands that tenderly cradled a knife.

The magical call struck him a third time, more insistent, and in a fit of temper Ciprian sketched the answering Charter mark and petulantly flung it away from him. Maybe now the dratted hallucinations would stop and he could be blissfully alone. Finally he would think about nothing. When the whole world had gone crazy, sometimes all you could do was leave it. Keeping his mind scrupulously blank, Ciprian brought the knife up to his wrist. He closed his eyes to savour the sounds and smells of the forest one last time. It smelled like damp moss and dirt and crushed pine needles. And it sounded wonderful: The trills of birdsong, the whispering of the branches as they brushed against one another, the chattering of a squirrel, the faint sound of running water...

The crunch of quick footsteps on the forest floor.

"Ciprian?" A voice.

The young man opened his eyes and laughed. There, standing a few feet away from him with a hand resting on the trunk of a tree, was Madran. _A hallucination_, Ciprian thought, grinning. Even now he could not be left alone. It was all there, every detail of his friend's appearance down to the hairs straying from his ponytail and the smudge of dirt on a bruised cheek. Madran took a hesitant step forward, and Ciprian suddenly frowned; hallucinations did not get their cloaks caught on bushes, or leave footprints in the loam. He raised his chin. "You're real."

The other man looked at him in concern, and his eyes flickered to the knife. "Are you all right?" he asked seriously. "What are you doing?"

It really _was_ his best friend Madran, out looking for him. _Not my best friend_, the young man corrected himself. _Not after he lied to me. Not after he attacked me. Not after I attacked him._ He did his best to tamp down on that dark memory, but his best wasn't good enough. _He came back to finish what he started_, Ciprian couldn't help thinking. His heart began to race in fear and anticipation. _He is going to fight me now, when I am weak. This time, he will kill me for sure._

Madran took another step forward, and reached out. "Easy, now."

Muscle memory kicked in and Ciprian raised the knife. With a wild yell he swiped at the other man, who defensively raised his arms and barely managed to dodge the weapon. Ciprian's blade sank into the trunk of a tree, and he wrenched it out before attacking again. He hardly knew what he was doing, but enough was enough. Emotional and unfocused, he swung the knife heedlessly, connecting with the surrounding growth and bearing down upon the other man.

"Ciprian, wait!" Madran was shouting. "It's me!"

"Get away from me!" Ciprian bellowed. "I want to be alone – just _leave me alone_!"

He was half-hoping that Madran would retaliate. He would let Madran kill him, he would welcome it. It would save him having to do it himself. Lately he had proved himself to be a shamefully incompetent officer, and it would be best if someone else could send him to his grave. Then suddenly he pulled up, panting and surprised, and stared at the second figure who had pushed through the underbrush. "Favilliel?" he gasped.

His sister flung herself forward and embraced him wordlessly. He stood for a moment, knife clenched in his hand, and then he closed his eyes and returned the embrace. Vividly he remembered hugging his sister on the steps of the House before leaving to become a Royal Guard. A tiny thread of normality was unexpectedly returning to his chaotic existence. "Ciprian, what were you _doing_?" Favilliel exclaimed, pulling away. "Oh, you look _terrible_. What would mother say if she knew you hadn't been taking care of yourself?"

She was so natural; it was as if the rebellion had never happened. Ciprian felt like crying, but with an effort he summoned up his customary cheerful disposition: a cloak he had learned to cast on and off at will. "I don't want to know," he replied with a smile. Then he turned to Madran, suddenly awkward. "Sorry," he mumbled, sheathing the blade and feeling stupid.

Madran and Favilliel exchanged glances. "It's all right," the Ensign reassured him. Ciprian was grateful that he did not tell Favilliel exactly what Ciprian was doing when he had found him. "We... hear you've been having a rough time."

Ciprian gave a mirthless laugh that jarred against the peaceful sounds of the forest. "A rough time?" he mused, grinning at the vast understatement. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that." Then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The two of them suddenly showing up like this – it seemed too good to be true. "Why are you here?"

"We need help," Favilliel admitted frankly. She was never one to beat around the bush. "You simply cannot imagine the things that have been happening in Belisaere, with Lord Ivor too, and now the Clayr are involved –" Madran nudged her in the ribs, and she broke off. "I'll give you the short version, then." Favilliel took a deep breath. "Do you remember the Clayr Illirae? When her term of service ended King Rothain would not release her. So Madran and I got her out of the Palace, and I was caught and imprisoned for treason."

"_You_?" Ciprian blurted out in surprise. His sister had always been the responsible one. Then an unpleasant memory resurfaced. A memory of two women on a horse, and a brave archer...

"While I was in prison," continued Favilliel, interrupting his dark thoughts, "I spoke with Lieutenant Padric. He was friends with Ghalio, remember? Lieutenant Padric told me things about Ghalio..." She trailed off, shaking her head helplessly.

Madran took over the narrative. "According to Padric, Ghalio loved Queen Irabel, and he convinced Padric to help him frame the Queen and Lieutenant Dernic for adultery." Ciprian stared at his old friend, wondering if this was some kind of joke. But there was more. "Ghalio then had Padric try to assassinate Vansen at an archery tournament, but the arrow struck the King's protective wards, and they pinned the attempted regicide on an innocent archer."

"Charter..." Ciprian was shaking his head. This was just too much to take in all at once.

"That's not all," said Favilliel. Her expression was grim. "Vansen believes that Ghalio was involved in your own demotion, brother. And now that he is Lieutenant, he is inciting Betrys to attack Belisaere. We're going to stop him, and we want your help."

Ciprian was stunned. Ghalio was his cousin. He had never been upset over Ciprian's promotion. He had always supported Ciprian, and had even defended him when Betrys had found him drunk. "Are you both completely out of your minds?" Ciprian cried. "You're saying that _Ghalio_ is behind everything? But – but – he is our cousin, Favilliel."

His sister planted her hands on her hips. "And you're an idiot, Ciprian. Hear us out," she said loudly over his spluttered protests. "Padric was going to be executed, and had no reason to lie about Ghalio. None of us truly know him. His father split from the rest of the family, remember? It was always a touchy subject. Mother and father never told us what happened, and uncle Thorael got angry whenever we even mentioned it." Ciprian reflected for a moment in silence. That much was true, at least. But he had trained with Ghalio, and his cousin had been a decent enough fellow, once you got to know him.

"I don't know..." he muttered.

Favilliel rolled his eyes in that way that irritated him so much. "Listen, everything falls into place," she insisted. "Framing his professional rival Dernic, trying to assassinate Vansen, getting both you and Vansen drunk, and now he is a Lieutenant – it's all his ambition. I do not know exactly what he is planning, but the Clayr say that Betrys will march on Belisaere, and if the rebels win then Ghalio could be one of the most powerful people in the Kingdom."

Ciprian was quiet for a moment. He wanted to believe his sister and his old friend, but it was possible that this was an elaborate Loyalist plot. However, since he was no longer Betrys' officer they could gain nothing by winning him over. If they were sincere, then they were now traitors to the Kingdom as well. Besides, the story was so ridiculous and far-fetched. If they had truly wanted to trick him, then Favilliel and Madran would have come up with something much better. It was this last point more than anything that convinced him.

"If this is the truth," he said finally, "and I'm not saying it is, then we are all in trouble." It also meant that this rebellion could be attributed to Ghalio's jealousy, given his desire for the Queen. It was a stupid reason for a war, in Ciprian's opinion, but then the causes of war were usually stupid. And did he really have any other choice? "All right," he sighed. "I'm coming with you."

Favilliel laughed in relief and Madran clapped him on the shoulder. "We tethered our horses past the bridge," said Madran, leading the way through the trees.

"I don't have –"

"We brought a third horse for you," his sister interrupted, anticipating him. She exchanged an amused glance with Madran. "The Clayr saw to that."

They soon came to the stone bridge spanning the Upper Ratterlin. Ciprian was surprised that the guardhouses were unmanned. "It was unguarded earlier today," Madran observed. "Rebel patrols are mustering in the woods beyond. Ghalio must have convinced Betrys to attack Belisaere."

"The Clayr warned us of the attack," explained Favilliel. "Belisaere's forces have undoubtedly moved out by now. Having you with us, Ciprian, the King may listen if we try to explain what's going on. Or maybe not the King, but the Chancellor at least. With Vansen's defection, and now yours, people might listen to all of us."

They crossed the bridge, and came to the royal road running north and south along the riverbank. Madran led them into the trees where the horses were hidden, but suddenly paused and gestured for silence. Ciprian froze and listened intently. It was just like being on a scouting patrol with Madran again. He missed those days. Ciprian allowed his ears to filter through the various sounds, and finally heard it: someone was pacing back and forth on the forest floor. Madran signed with his hands that they were to flank the person, and that Favilliel was to go up the middle. Ciprian nodded and drew his sword slowly, carefully, so that it didn't rattle against the sheath. Setting off into the woods, he gently placed one foot in front of the other, avoiding twigs and dried leaves, taking his time, until he finally settled into place behind some blackberry bushes. Peering around them, Ciprian could see the person's brown tunic, and he waited.

Madran gave the signal: a whistled bird-call. Ciprian jumped out from his cover, the other man whirled around and whipped out his sword, and Ciprian found himself face-to-face with Lieutenant Anthone. He couldn't say which one of them was more surprised. But he soon recovered his wits and brought his blade to the other man's throat. At the same time, he felt Anthone's sword brush his side. They did not move.

Madran and Favilliel had also emerged from the forest, and quickly levelled their blades at Captain Betrys' oldest son. "Don't make any noise," Madran warned in an undertone.

Anthone glanced at the Ensign out of the corner of his eye, careful not to move his head. "If you're thinking of killing me quietly," he replied, "I have a rebel force just through those trees that will soon be looking for their Lieutenant." He calmly turned his gaze to Ciprian. "So you defected to the Loyalists," he remarked. "I can't say I'm surprised."

Ciprian did not answer. He had served under Anthone for nearly three years, both as an officer of the army and as a rebel. For a long time the other man's opinion had meant a great deal to him, and he had respected Anthone. He was a good man, and Ciprian did not want him to come to harm; the nameless archer's meaningless death had been enough. Besides, he could not attack Anthone without being seriously injured himself and alerting the rebels. And there was no way Anthone could win a fight against the three of them, outnumbered as he was. It was a stalemate.

"Why are you out here by yourself?" asked Favilliel. Anthone remained stubbornly silent.

Ciprian applied some pressure with his sword, ignoring the answering bite of the other man's blade, and Anthone was forced to tilt his head. "I just needed some time alone," he hissed.

"Because Betrys ordered the troops to move out?" Ciprian guessed. Anthone's eyes flickered, and the sword against Ciprian's side twitched. "We were Lieutenants together, for a short time, and I know you don't want a war," said Ciprian. "Madran and Favilliel tell me that Ghalio is behind it all. I haven't defected, Anthone. We just want to stop this."

The other man was scrutinizing him, and Ciprian did not blink. Finally, Anthone lowered his sword and sheathed it. Ciprian, Madran, and Favilliel did the same. "Go on then," said Anthone. "If you can prevent all of this... Well, then may the Charter preserve you."

Soon Ciprian was riding down the road, laughing as the wind blew back his hair. He had a purpose again. Of course, it was likely that they were three idiots riding to their deaths. But given the chance, the truth was that Ciprian would rather fight against impossible odds at the side of Madran and Favilliel than take his own life in the woods any day.


	27. Voice of the Clayr

_A/N: Yup, another sort-of-late update. I am lazy scum. Let's see if I can get the next one up on a Saturday for a change, as originally planned! So, things are coming to a head, people are gathering together, and we're back with Illirae. Enjoy!_

**Voice of the Clayr**

_The young Clayr laughed as her friend whirled her around in a dance. They had just come from her Awakening ceremony. At fifteen years of age she was the last of her friends to gain the Sight, but the most important day of her life had finally come._

"_Illirae's a Daughter of the Cla–ayr!" her friend carolled as they twirled through the Perfumed Garden._

"_Stop, Marin!" she gasped._

_The taller girl abruptly released her hold and they tumbled to the ground, out of breath and giggling. "What now?" asked Marin gleefully. "Will you join the Rangers like me and Thess?" She plucked one of the fragrant blooms, large and white, and presented it to Illirae with an exaggerated bow._

_The newly-Awakened Clayr laughed. "Could you really picture me as a Ranger? Besides, the Commander scares me." She smiled as she absently tucked the flower behind her ear. "For now, it's enough just to be a Clayr."_

_Her friend smiled. "You look so pretty. I want to draw you, just like that." She reached out and softly brushed the petals with her fingertips. "I'm proud of you, Illirae," she said. And then they kissed._

Illirae looked out over the large field and exchanged a significant glance with Evah, the Commander of the Clayr Rangers. "This is it," she said, rather unnecessarily. Both of them were strong enough in the Sight to know that this was a place of importance. The very ground seemed to hum with presentiment, and Illirae thought that she had only to close her eyes to be overcome with flashes of vision. Beneath her excitement, Illirae remembered that last time she had been here as a slave on her way to Sindle. Ironically, her slavery to the northerners had made her one of the most well-travelled among the Clayr. Unlike the majority of her bloodline Illirae had walked along High Bridge, had seen the famed towers of Yanyl, and had ventured as far south as Qyrre. Perhaps in some mysterious way she had been meant to go through all of that, in order to recognize this obscure location where the meeting of armies would take place.

Evah was scrutinizing the lay of the land. "The rebels will come out of the trees, and the Royal force will approach over the hill?"

"That's what I Saw," Illirae confirmed.

"Hmph." the younger Clayr flinched; obviously the Commander did not have much confidence in her abilities. Since childhood Illirae had found the leader of the Rangers quite intimidating, despite her friends Marin and Thess having served under her. But today Illirae was the Voice, and therefore in charge. The prospect both excited and terrified her.

The Commander shielded her green eyes with a leathery hand. "When will they be arriving?"

"Soon," replied Illirae, trying to gauge the position of the sun. "And the armies will not be far behind." It felt strange, conversing with this seasoned warrior almost as if they were equals.

Evah gave a quick, efficient nod. "Then we should get ready to meet them." With that, they walked side-by-side down the double line of Rangers. All of the Rangers who could be spared had come, sailing down the Ratterlin in large ships and trekking over land to be here. They made an impressive sight: the two lines stretched across the long golden grass with the Rangers facing outward. Each holding a bow in her hands and wore a quiver of colourfully-fletched arrows. Positioned thus, a margin of neutral space was maintained across the battlefield.

At roughly the middle of the field Illirae and Evah stopped, and half a dozen Rangers flanked them as an honour guard. Although Illirae felt self-conscious about this, she understood that these precautions were necessary. The next few moments would be crucial as to whether or not the two armies would meet in war. They waited in silence, watching the trees, then –

A whistle. Illirae swivelled her head to see a Ranger raising her hand. Evah pointed. "There!"

At the edge of the woods, Illirae spotted someone on horseback emerging from the undergrowth. A man clad in red and gold. Madran. Two more riders appeared, one in brown and one in blue. Ciprian and Favilliel. The trio stopped at the sight of the Clayr, but noticed the small group in the middle and rode over at a brisk trot. Illirae watched three new arrivals stiffly dismount. Favilliel's feet had hardly touched the ground before she burst out, "Illirae! You made it!" The Clayr gave a soft smile as the line of Rangers parted to let them through. Favilliel gasped, "Betrys and her army are on the march! They'll be here before long – they can't be far behind!"

"We know," Illirae assured the younger woman. "We have Seen it. King Rothain's forces are also well on their way." She noticed Madran and Favilliel exchange a meaningful glance. "The armies will meet at this very spot.

The three newcomers scanned the enormous field. "This very spot?" repeated Ciprian nervously.

"Well – give or take a few paces," Illirae admitted with a wry smile. Commander Evah cleared her throat, and Illirae's smile vanished as she remembered why she was here. "Favilliel," she said, turning to the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, "do you have the scroll that Thess gave to you?" The young woman nodded. "Good," said Illirae. "Now is the time for you to read it."

To her credit, Favilliel did not ask any questions. Straightaway she rummaged through her rucksack and pulled out a thick scroll tied with a purple ribbon. Illirae vividly remembered the archivist Dagald pushing it across his hand-carved table. Kelsa's father. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting opened the scroll and walked a short distance off, rapidly reading its contents as she strolled down the neutral passage. For the moment Illirae stood still, enjoying the slight breeze as she looked over the assembled company. Before and behind her a long line of Rangers stood patiently waiting. Ciprian and Madran were nervous, though Madran was doing a better job of hiding it. Poor Ciprian was practically bounding on the balls of his feet. Looking at him, Illirae was suddenly hit by an awful realization: Ciprian.

_She looked back to see Kelsa with her bow drawn, facing down a dark-haired man. The arrow loosed, a surge of magic, and Kelsa falling lifelessly to the ground._ This man had killed Kelsa. A fury rose within her like she had never known before, and she stared at the young man, flushed with the effort of holding in her rage and sorrow. But she could not stop the choked cry that escaped her lips: "You!"

Ciprian looked up, confused. "Me?"

The Clayr could feel her entire body trembling. "You killed her," she said, letting the hot tears spill from her eyes. "Kelsa – my Kelsa –" The Rangers around her shifted slightly.

"The archer?" said Madran, looking quickly between Illirae and his friend. "Is this true, Ciprian?"

The Abhorsen's nephew was staring at the ground, his black hair obscuring his face. "Yes," he admitted heavily. "It may well as be. I was in command. I should have been able to stop them." He looked up, and his dark eyes were like gaping holes. "We were trying to take _you_, alive. She was defending you. I'm so sorry."

Illirae shook her head. A roaring had filled her ears, and something deep inside was urging her to avenge Kelsa, to take out her anger and grief on this man, this stupid man. Then she felt an iron grip on her arm. "He is a victim too," said Evah quietly. "Now is not the time for this, Illirae. You are the Voice. You have a duty to fulfill." Illirae sniffed, wiped the damp from her face, and turned away from Ciprian.

"We gave her a marked grave."

That remark nearly caused her to break down completely, but thankfully she was distracted when the Rangers began to stir.

"D'you hear that?" one of her guards muttered. And soon she did: a rustling in the bush, like a strong wind heading their way. The tension was palpable. Rangers checked and re-checked their weapons, a despondent Ciprian looked half-distracted, and even Madran, who was normally so inscrutable, couldn't stop fiddling with the edge of his tunic. Only Favilliel, still reading the scroll, seemed oblivious.

Commander Evah leaned close to Illirae. "What happens next?" she asked.

Illirae thought back to her conference with the Watch, piecing together fragments of visions to decipher what exactly had been Seen. "Someone will come first." She turned to face the hill opposite the forest from which the three travellers had emerged. "Over there."

"The King's army will be coming over that hill," Madran observed.

The Clayr smiled. "If Thess did her job, then someone else will arrive before the armies." Illirae had known Thess since they had been children, and could rely on her. And sure enough, a figure on horseback appeared on the crest of the hill. For a moment he paused, silhouetted against the grey sky, and then he rode down the grassy slope at a gallop. Illirae watched the lone rider's approach. Soon distinct features could be made out –dark hair, blue surcoat, and even the bandolier across his chest. As the others gasped in recognition, she could only feel satisfaction that it was exactly who she had been expecting. Then she was struck with realization: _Three dark-haired people looking up the hill..._

The sixteenth Abhorsen drew his horse up in a shower of earth, and glared down at them imperiously. His dark gaze fixed on Favilliel, who had glanced up from the scroll. "The Clayr ambassador said I would find you here," he snarled as he dismounted. At Illirae's signal, the Rangers let him through. "You have some nerve, girl, breaking out of the Palace." Madran protectively stepped between the Abhorsen and his niece, and Illirae nearly smiled; Favilliel was more than capable of taking care of herself. And if the members of the Watch had Seen true, as she hoped they had, then this young woman was going to play a pivotal role in saving the Kingdom.

"Your quarrel is not with her," Illirae proclaimed, stepping forward. It was strange, standing up to the Abhorsen like this, but she was the Voice. She was secure in her knowledge of what the Clayr had Seen, and what she knew. To Favilliel, she said, "Please continue reading."

The Abhorsen staring at the assembled company. He gave a start and peered at his nephew Ciprian as if unsure of the young man's identity. His sharp gaze swept the forest, from which came sounds of the approaching rebels. Then he looked down the double line of Rangers, who kept their eyes on the forest and the hill, calmly awaiting the two armies. "The King is following with a mighty force," he declared, but his confidence could not mask his unease. "I rode ahead of the scouts, but they will retaliate if anything is done to me."

"We mean you no harm, Abhorsen," Illirae replied. She was trying to be polite, but she could not help but remember that this man, large, intimidating, his cheeks covered in silver stubble, had once refused to release her from captivity. Thorael had never married, and did not have children. Compassion was not within his nature.

"I find it hard to take the word of someone who has betrayed the Kingdom," Abhorsen Thorael said darkly. A Ranger at Illirae's side stepped forward menacingly, but the Commander halted her with a word.

As for Illirae, she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. The Abhorsen's words had hurt her deeply. "She did not betray the Kingdom," spoke Madran in her defence. "The Clayr Illirae was no better than a prisoner under Rothain. It was unjust."

"You opinion counts for naught," sneered the Abhorsen, "_traitor_."

"Please," implored Illirae, stepping between the two glaring men. "We can argue all day about sides. What I want to talk about is the truth."

Thorael blinked, puzzled by her comment. "The truth about what?" he asked suspiciously.

"About your nephew, Ghalio." It was one of the hardest things Illirae had ever done, holding the Abhorsen's piercing gaze, but somehow she managed it. "He is behind this impending battle. His actions against Vansen and Ciprian brought him to Lieutenancy, and he is using his influence to urge Betrys to war. But even before that, he was involved in the downfall of King Rothain."

The Abhorsen's lips had parted in surprise. "_Ghalio_?" he repeated in disbelief. "My nephew Ghalio? He was one of the King's closest friends before the rebellion."

"I know it is difficult to believe," Illirae admitted. "Be assured that you will know all shortly."

Thorael's retort was cut off by a shout from a Ranger: Betrys and her army were appearing among the trees. The rebels paused at the sight of the Clayr, and a hurried consultation took place before a heavily-armed delegation approached the line of Rangers. Illirae recognized Captain Betrys. The brown-haired man on her left would be her son, Anthone. And the bearded man on her right was undoubtedly Ghalio. The Rangers allowed those three to pass, but warned off the others, who hefted their weapons threateningly but did not attack.

"Greetings, Thorael," said Betrys stiffly when the line of Rangers had closed behind her. She and her Lieutenants stood apart from the others, and her eyes raked over the assembled group. "What is all of this?"

"Don't ask me," the Abhorsen muttered.

If Captain Betrys was surprised to see her demoted officer Ciprian in the company of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, the Ensign Madran, and several Clayr, she did not show it. Illirae, meanwhile, was sneaking surreptitious looks at Ghalio. She remembered him from court, but they had not been well-acquainted. It was difficult to believe that this bearded rebel clad in the garb of a woodsman could have been responsible for so much of the Kingdom's misfortune. Ciprian and Madran were also looking at the man, and the tension of having these people together in such close quarters was nearly unbearable. But nobody said a word.

Beside her Commander Evah grunted, and Illirae saw that the Royal army's scouts had appeared on the ridge of the hill. They rode cautiously down, dismounting short of the line of Clayr. Dark glances and loud threats were exchanged between the scouts and the rebels, and Rangers had to draw their bows to warn off members of both sides from trying to attack each other on sight.

A loud gasp caused Illirae to look at Favilliel: the young woman had finished reading the scroll. It nearly fell from her white hands, and as Madran took it from her she met Illirae's gaze. The two women shared a look of commiseration. Favilliel was clearly shocked, but resolute, and the Clayr knew that she would do her part. But Illirae still had a role to play in the unfolding of these events. It was her duty to set in motion a future Seen by the Watch, and to be a true Daughter of the Clayr once more. It was time for her to speak.

_A/N: You'll find out what she's going to say next week. I was a bit nervous about the "flashback" scene for this chapter, but there you have it._


	28. Healing

_A/N: Well, nobody commented on the suggestion that Illirae is gay, which means either a) nobody picked up on it, or b) it's not a big deal, in which case I'm thrilled. As a person of mixed race, even as a kid I noticed that fantasy tended to be white-washed, with every other race being under-represented. I loved that in Ursula Le Guin's _A Wizard of Earthsea_, Native Americans were the dominant ethnicity (I was shocked to find that the book had been written in 1968 – truly ahead of its time). As a teenager I stumbled across Mercedes Lackey, who by including openly gay and bisexual characters in her novels made me realize how rare this is in fantasy. Things are getting better now in literature (Dumbledore!), and this increasingly open-minded view is encouraging, to say the least._

_Right, so now that I've concluded my speech, and drawn out the cliff-hanger ending of the previous chapter as long as I possibly could, on with the story!_

**Healing**

"_Hold on, I've got you!" The young woman grabbed her uncle under the arms and hauled him back from the attacking creature. The older man's leg had been laid open, pumping bright crimson blood into the dull grey waters of Death. Propping him against her side, she pulled one of the bells from her bandolier and rang it. The creature screamed, forked tongue slavering over broken teeth, and fell back to be washed away beyond the First Gate._

_It was a long and hard struggle, dragging her uncle who was a head taller than she and twice as broad, but the young woman managed it. Breaking through into Life, she fell to her knees and gasped for breath as her uncle brushed ice from his wounded leg. "Favilliel," he said, his voice ragged with pain and exhaustion. "You will be a great Abhorsen someday."_

Madran had taken the scroll from her faltering hands. Gazing at the trees from which the rebel army was curiously starting to emerge, Favilliel was afraid. Not of the rebels – there was a greater fear that completely obliterated anything else: the fear associated with responsibility. During her imprisonment she had discovered the depths of her cousin's treachery, and the scroll had revealed that the problems in the Kingdom ran deeper than she had ever known. Right now, she was the only person – aside from her cousin – who knew the whole story. Was it any wonder that she was shocked, confused, and yes, terrified? Any way she looked at it, if she failed in her duty to convince others of the truth, then it would lead to open war. There was no room for mistakes. One army was here, and the distant thunder in the east told her that a second was rapidly approaching. Never before had the threat seemed so near, so immediate.

Movement nearby caused her to look up. Illirae was standing before her with an expression of calm determination that seemed so foreign on her face. "I must tell you something," she said. Even her voice was unusually forceful. "You, and your brother, and your uncle."

Favilliel grabbed Ciprian and they approached the Abhorsen, watched suspiciously by Betrys and her Lieutenants. Favilliel avoided looking at Ghalio; she knew that if she did, she might lose control, and they could not afford that now. Thorael glared at his traitorous niece and nephew, and at the Clayr who had fled the Palace. "What do you want?" he snarled.

"In a few seconds the Royal army will arrive over that hill," Illirae announced, and indeed the rumble of footsteps and hoof-beats was deafening. "I have Seen how a needless war can be avoided, and it involves you three." The shorn-headed woman looked at Favilliel, Ciprian, and Thorael in turn. There seemed to be a hint of ceremony about that, the Clayr imparting her wisdom to the Abhorsens. "I have one request only, for the truth to be known._ Look to the King_."

Favilliel and Ciprian exchanged confused glances, and even the Abhorsen was puzzled. There was no time for explanations, because suddenly figures on foot and horseback were appearing on the hilltop. Favilliel did as she had been told and scanned the figures for King Rothain. Straight away her senses told her that something wasn't right, and as her gaze landed on a tall figure on horseback she felt a surge of Free Magic and Death. It clung to Rothain like a black aura. But he was dismounting, and there was a flare of Charter magic, and Favilliel sensed it no more. _King Rothain, swathed in Free Magic and Death?_ She let out a hiss of breath. Ciprian was staring at the King, and she asked, "Did you feel it?" Her brother gulped and nodded.

They turned to the Abhorsen, who had a strange look on his face as he whispered, "I felt it too."

Favilliel reflected on the contents of the scroll, which was now being held by Madran. The archivists had suspected that somebody close to the King was working magic upon him to alter his manner – but they did not know who, or how. The final piece had fallen into place.

A guarded delegation from the Royal army was coming down the hill, and Favilliel identified the Chancellor, Captain Finessa, the Clayr ambassador Thess, and handless Vansen; Rothain had remained on the hill. The Rangers parted to let them through, but kept out the armed guards who muttered angrily and traded glares with the rebel soldiers on the opposite side of the line. Favilliel kept her eyes on the Chancellor, watching as he took in the sight of Betrys and her Lieutenants, and the odd mixed group in the middle. It was customary before battle for the two sides to treat with one another, for a chance at reconciliation. Favilliel doubted that a more eminent company had ever gathered for such a purpose under the Kingdom sun.

"Betrys," said the Chancellor cordially, and the former Captain of the Guard nodded. Oraz looked at the lines of Rangers before his keen gaze landed on Illirae. Thess had moved to stand with her. "And who are the Clayr siding with?" he asked.

As one, Illirae, Thess, the Ranger Commander, and closest Rangers all pointed at Favilliel, who was taken aback. "Her," said Illirae simply.

Being stared at by some of the most powerful people in the Kingdom was uncomfortable, but this was clearly her chance. Illirae and Thess gave her encouraging smiles, and Favilliel summoned up her courage. "As the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, I serve the Charter," she proclaimed loudly, and silence fell. Even the rebels creeping out of the forest, and the guards on the hill, were listening. "Ties of family must give way to my overriding duty as a member of a Charter Bloodline. It is thus with a heavy heart that I charge my cousin Ghalio with high treason."

There was instant uproar among the rebels, and the surprise of the Royal army was no less voluble. Wasting no time, Ghalio made a move to break through the line of Rangers – but Ciprian was faster. Favilliel watched as her little brother shouted a few well-chosen Charter marks that brought their cousin tumbling to his knees. With a roar, the rebel force dashed towards the Rangers, who nocked arrows to their bows. Favilliel's heart sank; there was no way that the rebels would get through a volley unscathed, and no way that a single line of Rangers could hold out against the rebel army. Amid the din, Vansen struggled forward and raised his bandaged arms. "Mother, make them stop!" he yelled. "I second Favilliel's charge!"

Almost instantly, Lieutenant Anthone raised his voice: "I too second the charge made by the Abhorsen-in-Waiting!"

"HALT!" Betrys roared, and almost instantly every rebel, and the majority of the Royal force too, went silent and still. It was a tense moment but Favilliel could not hold back a grin; even months after the start of the rebellion, the voice of Captain Betrys, magnified by a simple Charter spell, was enough to instil command in those who had once served beneath her. Now Betrys was staring at her two sons. The sight of them united must have had some effect on her, because she said coldly, "I will hear your explanation for such a charge against my Lieutenant."

Favilliel finally looked at Ghalio, who was held, spitting and swearing, between Ciprian and Madran, his hands linked before him by a golden chain of Charter marks. She knew what he had done, and she knew how, but for the life of her she could not fathom why. Power? Revenge for the Queen's rejection of his love? It did not matter to her. Right now she had to save Rothain.

"A document has come into my possession, a copy of the one that had the archivists banished from Belisaere," explained Favilliel, slowly and clearly. "The archivists recorded King Rothain's symptoms and changes in character over a year's time. They had previously documented the deteriorating state of the Kingdom, and suggested that one of the Charters was weak and tainted. After extensive research, and evidence from the Court Doctor, the archivists suggested that someone close to the King was working magic against him. I propose that someone was Ghalio."

She glanced at her cousin, who had calmed down and met her gaze evenly. Now more than ever his cunning dark eyes sent chills down her spine.

"And what proof do you have?" Betrys was demanding.

"I will give a full explanation in due time," answered Favilliel. "One more thing must be done, to prove that Rothain's actions over the past two years have not been his own." She looked from Betrys to the Chancellor, and both gestured for her to continue. She took a deep breath, and then proclaimed, "We must examine the King."

Now it was the Royal army's turn to protest, and the Rangers had to struggle to hold off the scouting party and several guards. After a hurried discussion with Captain Finessa, the Chancellor raised his arms for silence. "What you are requesting is a serious violation of the King's dignity. Furthermore, you have been declared a traitor and are sentenced to death. However," he added, causing some of the Rangers to pause in their menacing advance, "in light of the seriousness of the charge, and the implications it could have on the Kingdom, we agree to the examination – on the conditions that the Abhorsen takes part, and that the King is not physically harmed."

Favilliel bowed her head. "Be assured, Chancellor, that all I do is for the King's wellbeing."

Soon she was walking up the hill between her brother and her uncle, followed by the Royal delegation, Illirae, and Captain Betrys. Bringing up the rear were Anthone and Madran, who were guarding Ghalio. Thess and the Rangers maintained the line, holding back the rebels who clearly suspected a Loyalist plot against their Captain. When they reached the Royal army everyone stood aside and lowered their heads respectfully. Everyone, except for a young Royal Guard with red hair. She planted herself in front of the King, and a bare sword was in her hands.

"Corporal Jyss," said Captain Finessa sternly. "Lower your weapon."

The young woman shook her head, gripping her sword even tighter. "I swore to protect him," she protested, eyes moving from one face to another. "I made the blood oath." Favilliel got the uneasy feeling that the guard was trying to calculate how many she could take down with her.

Chancellor Oraz stepped forward. "We are also trying to protect him," he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "If what the Abhorsen-in-Waiting says is true, then we must examine the King. That is the only way that we can heal him."

The guard shook worse than ever, but her hands were steady on the sword handle. She gazed at the Chancellor imploringly, but he did not back down. Then she looked at Favilliel who returned the gaze, trying to will this young and loyal guard into understanding. Somehow her feelings must have been conveyed, because the Corporal sighed and bowed her head. "All right," she murmured. "And if any harm comes to him, may death take me swiftly."

As the guard stepped aside, Favilliel got her first good look at the King. He was standing within a strong diamond of protection, and she realized that this was what had prevented her from sensing the stench of Free Magic and Death after he dismounted. Favilliel was shocked by the change in his appearance. Rothain had always been thin, but now he was emaciated, and he had to lean on a carved wooden stick to remain upright. His hair was damp with sweat, there were dark shadows under his eyes, and the vein in his temple was an ugly shade of purple. Rothain's over-bright eyes flickered from side to side, and his breath came in quick wheezing gasps.

"Ready?" Her uncle's voice was a quiet rumble. She nodded, and on her other side Ciprian did likewise. Together they raised their hands, and shattered the King's diamond of protection.

Instantly she felt Death. Rothain screamed. The vein in his temple was dark and throbbing as he raised a skeletal hand. Another diamond of protection flared to life around him, slicing the toe from Favilliel's boot, and she flinched back; he was powerful! Even Thorael needed a Charter blade to cast a diamond.

"Again!" her uncle roared, and this time Favilliel gritted her teeth and put all of her strength into breaking the spell. Ciprian shouted something, and a chain of golden marks tangled around the King's feet. He went sprawling, carved stick flying clear, and scrabbled on the grass, his mouth frothing. Favilliel heard the young Corporal crying out, but her uncle had yelled, "Hold him!" and she and Ciprian leaped forward to grab Rothain's arms. She sensed a great and devastating power gathering within him, and hastily pulled Ranna from her bandolier.

At the ring of the tiny silver bell, the King's head dropped forward in a faint, and they paused to catch their breath. Favilliel was dimly aware of the Chancellor trying to keep everyone back as she and Ciprian hoisted Rothain to his knees, supporting his tall frame between them. With a grim expression on his face, the Abhorsen reached forward and ripped open the front of the King's shirt. Everyone gasped, and Favilliel looked down.

A leech-like creature was stuck to the young man's chest, a creature made of blackness and shadows. The thing seemed aware of impending attack, because Favilliel sensed that Rothain's life was being rapidly drained away. "Quickly!" she shrieked, watching him turn white before her very eyes. "Before it kills him!"

Shouting a harsh spell, the Abhorsen flung a burst of flame at the creature, which formed a mouth to scream as it was burned from Rothain's chest. Ciprian leaped to his feet and impaled it on his sword in one swift movement. At the same time Favilliel heard Ghalio yell, and looked up to see him doubled over in pain. Someone took Rothain's arm from her as she stood, and Thorael looked at her and nodded. "Together." Shoulder to shoulder, each wielding Saraneth, Favilliel and her uncle banished the Dead spirit for good.

The young red-haired Corporal and the Chancellor had replaced Favilliel and Ciprian at the King's side, and he was reviving somewhat. Weak, pale, and panting, he gingerly felt the ugly lesion on his chest. A thick purple vein ran from the wound up his neck to his temple; a means of control. The Abhorsen crouched in front of him. "A Mordaut," the older man grunted. He placed his hand on Rothain's chest, and Favilliel watched a stream of golden Charter marks flow into the King's skin. The world was silent as the Abhorsen healed the King. The purple vein disappeared as poison was drawn from the wound, and the flesh closed, leaving a ragged scar.

Oraz placed his hand on the back of Rothain's neck; an oddly fatherly gesture. "My King?"

Looking at Rothain, Favilliel decided that he seemed saner than before, though still pale and weak. He blinked up at the assembled company, clearly bewildered. "I – what –?"

"You were host to a Dead spirit called a Mordaut," explained the Abhorsen. "But that was unlike any Mordaut I have ever seen. It was suppressing your will, controlling you."

The King blinked and shook his head, clearing the cobwebs. "How could one of the Lesser Dead take such a hold on me?" His voice was hoarse, as if he had not used it in months.

"Your mind must have been weak when you were infected," said Thorael. "Because you are of a Charter Bloodline, sipping on your spirit made it stronger than usual. It did not have to leave you during the night to find other prey. An adept Free Magic sorcerer would need to have put a great deal of power into it, in order for it to have affected you so."

As one they turned to Ghalio, who had collapsed in pain when the Mordaut had been stabbed. He was held securely by two Clayr Rangers, and guarded by Madran. Favilliel reflected on the strange sight, the King and her cousin facing each other on the ground. There was a horrible silence as the two men looked at each other, and Favilliel got the impression that the King was piecing together everything that had happened over the past two years. Finally, Anthone asked, "Shall I kill him, your Majesty?"

Rothain shook his head. He started to get up, and gently waved away the helping hands of the young Corporal, miraculously standing on his own power. He was very tall. "The prisoner is to be taken to the palace and interrogated," he said quietly. "I wish to understand, and find out... why." He turned to Betrys, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal, and extended his hand. "My old friend. I do not expect you to forgive me now, but perhaps you will consent to help me. Is it too much to hope that we can rebuild the Kingdom together?" Favilliel was struck by how regal and proud he looked. King Rothain's shirt was torn, his ribs showed, and he was swaying on his feet. But his eyes were sane, and not a little sad.

Betrys startled them all by not only taking his hand, but kneeling on the trampled ground to kiss his signet ring. The Chancellor was the next to kneel, and soon everyone followed suit, from the Royal Guard to the Rangers and the rebel army assembled in the field below. Favilliel caught Madran's eye, and could only smile. They had done it.

_A/N: Two chapters left! Unfortunately, my one-chapter-per-week updating schedule must be temporarily halted. Next week I'm leaving on a camping trip, and I have a rather important exam in late July, so the next chapter will be up in three to four weeks. However, I hope that this latest instalment has answered many questions and will hold you over until then. Reviews, as always, are most welcome!_


	29. Confession

_A/N: After four weeks away, camping across the country and studying for an exam, I am finally posting this next instalment! Thank you all for your patience and kind reviews. I've been looking forward to writing this chapter, which will hopefully answer the questions that you still have, and shows a long-awaited meeting between two characters. Enjoy!_

**Confession**

"_Ghalio, can you go into Death?"_

_The dark-haired man turned from where he'd been leaning on the ship's railing. Behind him stood the young King, not yet twenty, with a curious look on his face. The King walked up to the railing and closed his eyes, obviously relishing the cool and salty ocean breeze. "Ciprian mentioned you were cousins. Does that mean you're the Abhorsen's son?"_

"_Nephew," grunted the dark-haired man. "I was never really part of the family, to be honest."_

_The young King looked at him sidelong, then shrugged. "Well, you're an Abhorsen to me."_

_Ghalio laughed and ruffled the boy's curly hair, then they turned to watch the ocean together._

It wasn't cold, or dark, or uncomfortable in the room. It was boring. In an effort to pass the time Ghalio was sitting at the rickety desk making animals from folded paper. Quill and parchment had been provided by his jailors in the hope that he would confess everything in a final written statement before facing the gallows. Ghalio smiled as he held up a paper fox; his execution date was looming, and he still had not spoken a word of confession to his interrogators. Furthermore, he had stopped eating, if only to annoy them even more. They were getting desperate.

The key rattled in the lock and Ghalio dropped the paper fox and twisted in his chair, wondering what they were going to try with him today. But it wasn't Corporal Tralon, or the Chancellor, or any of their lackeys who walked through the door. The prisoner inclined his dark head. "Well, well. The King himself." So, they had apparently taken his words to heart.

Rothain was still frail and weak, and Ghalio watched closely as the younger man sank into the chair just outside the spelled line crossing the room. The King folded his hands and sat back with an air of expectation. Ghalio smirked, got to his feet, and noisily dragged his own chair over to sit opposite the King. The golden line of Charter Marks ran between them like a molten river.

"They tell me that now you are willing to talk." Rothain's voice was studiously composed.

"Only to you," Ghalio clarified. He would confess everything before death, but not out of a sense of guilt. No – the confession itself would be his final act of revenge. Rothain had no idea.

The King gave a strained smile. "Should I be flattered?" When Ghalio did not answer, the younger man clenched his fists and his eyes flashed impatience. "Well? _Talk_."

"About what?" Ghalio noted with satisfaction that the King was getting even more flustered. He had always been like that, over-emotional and easily affected. Such a weakness in a ruler.

"_You're_ the one who wanted to talk to _me_," Rothain grumbled, then he flushed upon realizing how petulant and childish he sounded.

Ghalio smirked, enjoying the other man's discomfort. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," said Rothain firmly. "With help from the Archivists we've pieced together your actions after the Invasion. But where did it all start? And –" he made a violent gesture of helplessness and frustration, "– _why_? I want to know why you did all of this."

"Then we should start at the beginning."

King Rothain's expression darkened. "You and the Queen."

"No," said Ghalio abruptly. "_Before_ that." There was a long silence, during which he scrutinized the younger man. He could practically read Rothain's thoughts as they flitted from one possibility to another: What had he felt for Lady Irabel? Where had he learned Free Magic? What had he done during those unknown years after his village had been destroyed? Then –

"Why would the Abhorsen's nephew turn against the Charter?"

Ghalio gave a pleased smile. "Well done." He settled more comfortably into his chair. "It started with the falling-out between my father and the Abhorsen. My mother was a poor villager, a nobody, and pregnant with me at the time. My father wanted to marry her, but the Abhorsen would not hear of it, so my father left. Thorael disowned him so that he – and I – could never claim the title of Abhorsen. Father became the Charter Mage of my mother's village, and several of the neighbouring villages as well, but despite the work he could never make ends meet. We lived in poverty. My father blamed the Abhorsen for our circumstances, and rightly so."

"I am sorry to hear of your misfortune," said Rothain, and he looked sorry too. He'd always had a soft heart. "But – I've heard that you spent time with your cousins during your childhood."

"Yes," said Ghalio through gritted teeth. "I did. My aunt attempted to heal the breach between her brothers, and when that failed she invited me to visit the House. She meant it kindly, foolish woman, but those visits served to remind me of the wealth, status, and heritage that I was never a part of. Oh, I hid my feelings well, Rothain. They never knew how much I truly detested them."

The King flinched at this callousness, which amused Ghalio. "When my parents – and the rest of the village – were killed by northerners, I did not join the Abhorsens. My aunt invited me, but she did not understand that I would always be an outsider, the son of the least-favourite brother."

Rothain was nodding his curly head. "All right," he acknowledged. "You did not feel you were part of the Abhorsen family. So what did you do during those three years?"

Ghalio shrugged. "I wandered from place to place. Growing up poor, I'd learned to shift for myself. You were at sea at the time, so you wouldn't know what it was like in the Kingdom. Everybody was on the run, Charter and Free Magic alike. So I joined a band of necromancers."

"_Necromancers_?" The young King was staring at him in astonishment.

"They hated the Abhorsen too, so we had some common ground," observed Ghalio with a twisted smile. "I could go into Death, same as them, and the Abhorsen family are the only Charter Mages who can use Free Magic. The necromancers told me that if I wanted something, I would have to take it for myself. And if someone else had what I wanted, it was better to destroy it. That way, I would never lose." A pained look had crossed Rothain's face; the boy was no doubt thinking of Irabel. "I learned a lot, not the least how to always be on my guard." Ghalio flexed his hands. "Necromancers don't often work together, you know. They're dangerous. I had to develop quick reflexes in order to survive. I wasn't a full necromancer – I used Charter Magic, and I wasn't baptised with a Free Magic rune – but I learned their tricks and invented some of my own. Like how to make a regular Mordaut into a means of control."

Rothain's hand instinctively clutched his chest, and for a moment he glared at Ghalio. The older man smiled mirthlessly back, secure in the knowledge that he was safe behind the spelled line. Also, Rothain could not do anything to him – at least, not until the confession was complete. The boy's sickening sense of justice would see to that.

After a tense moment the young King relaxed. "So," he said with forced calm, "what happened to your necromancer friends when I reclaimed the throne? If you recall, at that time the Abhorsen and Favilliel set about eradicating all enemies of the Charter."

"I abandoned them." Ghalio enjoyed the expressions of shock, anger, and disgust that passed over Rothain's face. "And I wouldn't go so far as to call them _friends_," he added. "It was no longer useful to be with them. I was glad that I hadn't burned off my Charter mark."

The King pursed his lips, but did not pursue the subject further. "What happened then?"

"I enlisted in the Royal Guard," replied Ghalio, stretching his arms way above his head and cracking his back. "It gave me the opportunity to hone my battle magic and use the fighting skills I'd picked up. Serving the Crown, I was beyond suspicion. My idiotic cousin Ciprian enlisted as well, and we were reacquainted. Ciprian liked me – but then he is a fool who likes everybody. And if my cousin wished to befriend me, who was I to alienate him? I could use him."

"Like you used everybody," Rothain noted bitterly. "Ciprian, Padric, Betrys – me." The King's fists clenched, but he said, calmly enough, "When did I become part of your plan?"

"The day I captured your attention in the courtyard. You wanted me in your personal guard. Until then I had been keeping my head down, wondering how I could strike out at Thorael. That man, my _uncle_," he spat, "ruined the lives of my entire family. If he had only accepted my mother, she would have been safe inside the Abhorsen's House when the Northerners took her village." Ghalio brooded for a moment in silence, before carrying on. "Despite my hatred, I knew that the Abhorsen was far too powerful to take on directly. But by getting close to a young and vulnerable King, I could uproot the very power that my dear uncle so devotedly served, and achieve my revenge that way. I would make his duty, that infernal duty that had caused him to disown my father, something laughable. I would make him serve a weak and pathetic ruler."

BANG!

Rothain's chair toppled over as he jumped to his feet. He took a threatening step forward and stopped short at the spelled line, letting out a growl of anger and frustration. Ghalio remained seated, smiling up at him. This seemed to enrage the King even further, and for a moment Ghalio feared that Rothain would ignore protocol, shatter the protective spell, and kill him right there.

But soon the fury in Rothain's eyes diminished, to be replaced by sorrow. "What?" Ghalio asked, his voice coming out harsh and defensive. "You're upset that I used you?"

"No." The King's voice shook as he righted his chair. He sat down, his pale face drawn and exhausted. "What hurts me, Ghalio, is that to you our friendship was one of convenience." This remark genuinely surprised the dark-haired prisoner. Ghalio had committed countless crimes against Rothain and the Kingdom, and he wanted to talk about their friendship? Rothain was still looking at him sombrely. "Didn't it mean anything to you?" he asked, sad and dignified.

"Would it matter if it did?" Ghalio replied, just as grave.

"It would matter to _me_." Ghalio did not say anything to this, and the silence stretched into minutes. The sigh that finally escaped Rothain carried with it all the weariness of a dying man. "We had both lost our families during the invasion. And you were my closest friend, a surrogate brother. You looked after me." Rothain leaned forward. "What _happened_?"

"For a year I was loyal," Ghalio confirmed. "Your friendship brought me up in the world, and increased my ability to revenge myself on the Abhorsen." Rothain looked hurt at that, and Ghalio knew that the young monarch would never understand him. If he was completely honest with himself, Ghalio had to admit that he'd liked Rothain – as much as he could like a person, in any case. But he wasn't going to tell the boy that. "I stayed in your personal guard until my first mission to fetch Lady Irabel. You ask what happened. It was a woman." He let out a burst of sudden, humourless laughter. "It's always a woman, isn't it? I will spare you the details. I loved her. I wanted her. She would not have me."

"And so you killed her." Rothain's voice was cold and hard, and his face was as expressionless as a statue's, but this was clearly a painful topic for him. It was painful for Ghalio as well.

"All of a sudden, my fight was not just against the Abhorsen. It was against you too." Ghalio leaned forward and clasped his hands, not wanting to miss Rothain's reaction. "I began to hint that she was having an affair with my professional rival, Corporal Dernic. You hadn't been a good husband, riding off all the time on state business, so your fear was real enough. After all of my insinuations you came to me one night, desperately seeking counsel. And it was then, during your moment of greatest weakness, that I infected you with my Mordaut, that dark creature into which I'd poured all of my power and malice. Now I had control – a revenge better than death."

Rothain sat back in his chair as if wanting to retreat from Ghalio's words. "You're right," he murmured, passing a hand over his eyes. "After I went to you – that's when I began to lose my memories. And that's when I must have –" He stopped, unable to go on.

"Irabel and Dernic were executed," said Ghalio coldly. "The archivists were banished for their suspicions. The Court Doctor was sent to Ancelstierre. Under my power, you became a paranoid recluse, always surrounded by a diamond of protection. And you refused to see the Abhorsen, who would sense the Mordaut if the diamond ever failed."

"I suppose your plan was to use me as your puppet?" Rothain groaned. "To move up as high as you could, perhaps even to the Chancellery? To influence me to take on the Abhorsen himself?"

Ghalio inclined his head. "You are the most powerful mage in the Kingdom. Nobody else would have a hope of challenging Thorael. And if you failed, that was no real detriment to me."

Rothain lowered his hand from his face, and his eyes held a glint that Ghalio had not seen in them before. "You did not succeed," the younger man observed.

"No," Ghalio acknowledged. "My attempt to kill Vansen was unsuccessful. Padric hit your diamond of protection instead, and the magical pressure I'd put on him unhinged his mind. What I did not foresee was the rebellion." Ghalio struck the arm of his chair. "_That_ interfered with my plans. From a distance I could only prevent you from remembering your Queen."

An expression of comprehension dawned on Rothain's face. "The headaches..."

"Yes. I feared that if you remembered Irabel, you would fight the Mordaut's control and possibly break it. Thankfully, by then the practice of surrounding yourself with a diamond of protection was ingrained. Meanwhile, I had to change my plans. I managed to remove my rivals for the ear of Captain Betrys, and urged open war. Betrys would become the next Regent, I would be pulling the strings, and if you or the Abhorsen were killed in battle, then so much the better."

Rothain was shaking his head, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "You left some loose ends," he observed. "Padric, and the archivists. They led to your downfall."

Ghalio gestured with his hands. "I never said I was perfect."

The young King regarded him unhappily for a moment. "All of that, because of you." Ghalio felt triumphant that now, at last, Rothain knew the extent of his actions. The younger man was distraught. "What should I do with you?" he murmured, almost to himself. They gazed at each other across the spelled line, and Ghalio felt a strange and unexpected sense of camaraderie between them. Abruptly, Rothain stood and began to pace. "Everyone is urging me to hold a public execution."

Ghalio watched him, wondering why the King was saying this. "Then go ahead," he said bluntly. "I don't care."

Rothain paused and turned to him. "I think you do. You were always proud."

Ghalio opened his mouth to retort, but his words died before they reached his tongue: Rothain was taking down the spelled line. He watched in wonder as the King crossed the cold stone floor. Rothain wordlessly pressed something into his hand, and Ghalio glanced down. It was a knife. A long look passed between them, then Rothain turned and walked slowly for the door.

The handle of the knife dug into Ghalio's palm as he clenched it fiercely. The spelled line was down. It would be so easy to cross the room, grab the King, and draw the blade across his throat. Moreover, Rothain had turned his back on him. Was the boy so arrogant and foolish? Ghalio's jaw clenched in anger, before the more reasonable part of his mind took over: He was beaten, fair and square. Rothain, for whatever reason – perhaps out of humanity, or perhaps as a last sign of friendship – was giving him a quieter, more dignified way out than a public execution.

At the door Rothain turned to glance over his shoulder. Ghalio, still seated, gazed at the knife in his hand, looked back at the King, and then inclined his head. Rothain returned with the barest of smiles, and then he was gone. Left alone, Ghalio examined the knife more closely. He did not have much time left, but he would like to see the weapon by which he was to die. It was an ancient relic, and had probably been retrieved from one of the Palace's dusty armouries. At his touch Charter marks ignited along the steel curve of the blade, and Ghalio's throat constricted when he read the brief inscription: _I was forged by will of the King as his gift to the Abhorsen_. He closed his eyes briefly. Then, he positioned the point of the blade over his chest, and struck.

_A/N: I really feel I ought to say something about Ghalio. He is heavily influenced by two Shakespearean characters, Iago from "Othello", and Hal from "Henry IV". You'll notice that his name is an amalgamation of theirs. Iago is my favourite Shakespearean baddie. He is secretive and conniving, but everyone thinks he's a great guy. He's also overlooked for a promotion to Lieutenant, and revenges himself on his competitor Cassio by getting him drunk and demoted – hence Ghalio's actions against Ciprian. There is also some sexual jealousy between Iago and his General, Othello. At Iago's instigation, Othello suspects his wife of adultery and kills her, much like Rothain. Conversely, Hal is actually a good guy, and will grow up to be the awesome King Henry V. But as a prince, Hal uses his friends (especially Falstaff) for his own purposes and ambitions, and then quite cruelly abandons them. This is similar to Ghalio's treatment of his lackeys, Sino and Padric. So I really owe a lot to Shakespeare. But then, I've counted no less than three Shakespearean references in the Old Kingdom Trilogy, so if I must steal at least it's in a Nixian way!_

_Only one more chapter to go._


	30. His Father's Son

_A/N: Well, here we are at last! My apologies that this update is one day late. I actually had it all written out, but I wasn't satisfied with it and so I started again from scratch. I would like to thank stupidpenname and Fishy Biscuits for their valuable comments concerning this chapter._

**His Father's Son**

_It was late at night, and the ships rocked idly on the black ocean beneath a curtain of stars. In one cabin a golden Charter light was burning._

_A teenage boy was standing over his desk, peering down at the dimly-lit map as he traced the jagged coastline with a finger. A soft knock sounded at the door, and it creaked open to admit an old man dressed in black and white robes. The visitor silently moved to stand at the boy's shoulder. "See anything interesting, Sire?"_

_The boy's finger stopped at a peninsula that thrust out into a large bay. "Belisaere, Chancellor. Within reach, yet beyond our aid," the boy replied. His voice was grim._

_The old man cleared his throat. "Sire, we must engage the barbarians at sea before we can even think of retaking Belisaere. The Kingdom is overrun, and to attack now would be suicide."_

"_I know." The boy leaned on the desk and bowed his curly head. Then he uttered, so quietly that the Chancellor almost did not hear it: "I wish father were here."_

"_King Edrian was a great man and a noble ruler." The Chancellor placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "And you are your father's son, Rothain. If it takes a year – if it takes ten years – you _will_ reclaim Belisaere, and assume your rightful place on the throne."_

"So we are in agreement?" Rothain looked at Vansen without really seeing him. The King had clasped his hands together and dug in his heels to keep from literally bouncing in his chair with anxiety. Right now there were far more important things on his mind than business, but the running of the Kingdom did not stop and start at his convenience.

"The Captain won't like it," Vansen observed wryly. The King's handless advisor had doubtless noticed his agitation, but thankfully acted as if everything – even coming to the King's private quarters for a meeting – was perfectly normal. Rothain had refused to leave all morning

"Finessa must realize that the Royal Army cannot be built up again," said Rothain, making an effort to concentrate on the task at hand. "Our citizens are scattered, and maintaining a Royal Army to watch over everyone is impractical. There is still a shortage of Charter mages, and I do not want to start conscripting them into the army."

"I concur," Vansen reassured him. "With the people so widespread it makes sense to have local constabularies. And in case of war, the Mayor of each city and town will have trained an armed band to be called into action when needed. It is a good plan. It will work." Rothain managed a smile; having trained bands instead of an official army had been Vansen's idea; of course he thought it was a good plan. "But I still don't want to tell the Captain you've decided to permanently disband the Royal Army," the advisor added.

"Betrys approved of the plan in its infant stages," observed Rothain. "And although _you_ may have to tell Captain Finessa, _I_ will need to deal with her objections afterwards." He grinned. "However, it's been four years since the rebellion; I don't think she'll cause another one." Vansen made a face at that remark, and behind him Madran and Ciprian laughed. The two Lieutenants, along with the Chancellor, had been keeping Rothain company.

Their business finally complete, Vansen bowed and left the room. As soon as he was gone Rothain sprang to his feet and resumed his pacing. They had been waiting all morning.

"Sire – shouldn't you sit down?" Ciprian was leaning on the wall next to the door, watching with an amused smile. "At this rate you'll wear a hole in the carpet."

Rothain ignored him, and Chancellor Oraz chuckled. "I've seen his father in many a similar state. Believe me, Lieutenant, this is normal. He will not sit down no matter how you ask."

"Nothing's happening," said Rothain, striking the wall in frustration and casting a longing glance at a richly-carved door. "It has been hours already. What if something has gone wrong?"

"We would have been informed," said Lieutenant Madran, ever-reasonable. He and the Chancellor were playing a quiet game of Cranaque, looking for all the world as if they were attending a garden party. Rothain did not know how they could be so calm in a situation like this.

Suddenly, from behind the door came a harsh and ragged scream. Rothain bolted forward but was quickly grabbed by Madran, who upended the Cranaque board. "It's all right," the Lieutenant reassured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "It's just starting." Meanwhile, the Chancellor quietly notified the guards outside that they were not to be disturbed.

The next hour was the longest in Rothain's life. There were more screams, and the King kept his two Lieutenants on their toes as they repeatedly pulled him back from the carved wooden door. When it finally opened, the King stared, slack-jawed, as two Ladies-in-Waiting emerged with bloody sheets. Now Rothain wasn't going to be stopped. "I _have_ to go inside!" he hissed as Ciprian and Madran strained to hold him back. A wave of urgency and alarm rose within the King, and instinctively he shouted a defensive Charter mark his father had taught him long ago. The two Lieutenants were blasted right off their feet; Ciprian was flung gracelessly into a chair and sent it toppling to the ground, and Madran was slammed into a nearby wall.

Rothain stopped dead, shocked by what he had just done. He took a hesitant step towards Madran, who was sprawled at the base of the wall. "I – I'm so sorry," he gasped. "I panicked."

Madran rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "It's all right. Believe me, I understand."

Rothain abruptly remembered that Madran had a daughter. The birth of that particular child had been something of a scandal, because the Lieutenant – then Ensign – was not married to Favilliel, although everyone who knew them thought he might as well have been.

"Where _is_ your daughter?" asked Rothain as he helped Madran to his feet. "If Favilliel is in there with..." His voice trailed off.

"The little terror?" replied Madran, tactfully ignoring the King's last remark. "She's in the archives. Dagald is teaching her to read. Or trying to," he added with a sigh.

Meanwhile, Chancellor Oraz had returned from scolding the thoughtless ladies-in-waiting. "There," he said, settling comfortably back into his chair. "It won't be long now." Rothain rolled his eyes, but then a swift knock on the hall door startled them all. Ciprian opened it to admit a messenger. "We gave instructions for no visitors," the Chancellor said crossly.

The messenger removed her hat. "The missive was most urgent, sir." She turned her eyes to the King, who was hardly listening. "It was sent from the Clayr."

The Chancellor took the envelope and shooed the messenger away, and at Rothain's distracted wave the old man opened it and read the letter himself. Rothain had resumed his pacing, but when the Chancellor made a noise of surprised he paused and glanced over. There was a most peculiar expression on the old man's face. "What is it?" asked the King, his curiosity piqued.

Chancellor Oraz held out the letter, and Rothain snatched it up and scanned the elegant script:

_A message for Their Royal Highnesses, the King and Queen. On behalf of the Daughters of the Clayr, I wish to offer my sincere congratulations on the birth of your son. – Illirae._

Rothain lowered the page with shaking hands. "The birth of my..."

And from behind the door came the faint sound of a baby crying.

Ciprian and Madran laughed and whooped, shaking Rothain's hand and slapping his back in a manner shared by all Royal Guards. The Chancellor's face was shining. "I have a son!" Rothain exclaimed excitedly, but then he was struck by a sudden terrifying thought: Illirae had not said that it was a _healthy_ son. "Is crying normal?" he asked, suddenly frantic with worry.

Madran raised an eyebrow. "Yes. It means the baby is breathing."

"Oh." Rothain paused to digest this information, and then asked, "Is he crying enough?"

The brown-haired Lieutenant was saved from having to answer when the door opened and Favilliel poked her head out. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting looked tired, but she was smiling. "They are ready for you, Sire," she said before popping back inside. Rothain then felt such a confusing mixture of relief, excitement, and terror that he did not know quite what to do. He was saved from having to make the decision by Ciprian and Madran pushing him towards the door.

The young King looked over his shoulder at the others. "Please don't go anywhere – we'll be wanting you all in a moment."

The two Lieutenants exchanged glances, and the Chancellor said, "Perhaps today it should be just you and the Queen."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Rothain. "She would be glad to have you. And we will need witnesses. For the baptism," he clarified, resting his hand on the doorknob. "We talked it over, and we don't want a lot of fuss and public display. Just a quiet ceremony with friends." The three men looked quite gratified. Then at long last and with a trembling hand, he opened the carved wooden door.

The room was softly lit by dim Charter lights that hovered near the ceiling. Favilliel stood by the side of the bed, talking quietly to the midwife. And propped up in the large four-poster bed was Jyss, her tangled red hair darkened by sweat, and her gaze fixed lovingly on the small bundle in her arms. Rothain moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and kissed her. "How are you?"

"Fine." Jyss gave a weary sigh. "But I am seriously reconsidering our decision to have more children." She smiled and held up the bundle. "Look. See what we did?"

Rothain took the baby awkwardly, placing the tiny head in the crook of his elbow. For a moment he was speechless. "Thank the Charter he got your good looks," he remarked.

The new mother laughed, then squinted at him curiously. "How did you know it was a boy?"

"The Clayr sent me a premature note of congratulations." He paused as the baby squirmed, and a tiny flailing hand grasped the ruby pommel of his sword. "Look at that!" he exclaimed in delight.

Jyss sighed. "Not a day old, and you're letting him play with weapons already?"

"What?" Rothain shot her a look of wide-eyed innocence, one that usually worked. "I say the sooner he starts, the better. And at this rate, he'll be the finest swordsman in the Kingdom."

"How do you know he'll be a swordsman?" Jyss countered. "What if he doesn't like weapons?"

"Doesn't like weapons!" Rothain repeated, aghast. "With parents like us? That's like saying he won't be a powerful Charter mage." He beamed down at the baby, already imagining play swordfights in the Palace halls.

"I suppose he'll also be an accomplished musician," said Jyss, rolling her eyes.

Rothain gave a wicked grin. "Maybe like his mother he'll have flaming red hair," he teased.

Jyss shot him a glare. "And maybe like his father he'll be tall as a tree." Rothain clammed up and made a mental note not to annoy his wife anymore that day. She'd had a very trying time.

He gave the baby a gentle kiss on the head, passed him back to the new mother, and then nodded at Favilliel. She opened the door to admit Madran, Ciprian, and the Chancellor, and the visitors quietly gathered around the small family. Rothain doubted that such an eminent group had ever assembled to welcome a prince into the world. Everyone was strangely hushed and solemn.

"Have you thought of a name?" asked Madran in a whisper.

Jyss and Rothain exchanged smiles. "Yes," answered Rothain. "Which reminds me – it's time for the baptism." He looked at his wife questioningly.

"I already asked Favilliel," Jyss assured him. "She agreed to be the Charter Mage."

As Madran gathered wood-ash from the fire and Favilliel pulled a small glass bottle from her pocket, Rothain fussed over the new mother. "Are you comfortable?" he asked, pulling the blankets further up her lap. "Are you hungry? Do you need some water?"

"Water would be fine," Jyss replied, and Rothain hurried over to the silver pitcher and cups.

"The King waiting on someone?" Ciprian observed. "That's new."

Favilliel's eyes twinkled. "The Queen isn't his personal aide anymore," she remarked as she rolled up her sleeves. "That all stopped when she married him."

"I still take care of him," said Jyss, looking up from her son. "But now I don't get paid for it."

The visitors burst out laughing, and the Chancellor leaned over to Rothain as he poured a goblet of water. "It sounds like you got the better part of the deal, Sire."

"I know I did." Jyss did not say anything, but Rothain noticed that her ears turned red.

They gathered at Jyss' bedside, ready to begin. At the King's request Chancellor Oraz held the baby, who nestled against the black and white folds of his robes. Favilliel, a Charter-mark drawn in ash on her brow, raised the bottle and started to chant. Rothain's breath caught in his throat when the bottle began to glow, and he watched as the liquid inside was infused with the Charter and all that bound it together. The Abhorsen-in-Waiting bent to touch the bottle to the floor, then to the mark on her brow, and finally emptied the shimmering liquid over the baby's head.

A sudden flash lit up the entire room, and Rothain's eyes filled with bursts of coloured light. And over all of this he heard Favilliel call: "By the Charter that binds all things, we name thee –"

Rothain and Jyss locked eyes and hands, and spoke together: "Edrian."

A Charter mark was slowly forming on the child's brow, and Rothain looked at Chancellor Oraz, who was cradling the baby. It could have been the after-effects of the flash of light, but for a moment Rothain thought that the old man was crying. As for himself, the young King felt an immeasurable sense of satisfaction – of _rightness_ – such that he could hardly describe.

In the ensuing silence, Favilliel placed her hand on the infant's head, where a new Charter mark now blazed with a fierce inner light. "Welcome to the Old Kingdom," she whispered. "Prince Edrian."

**The End.**

_A/N: I would like to thank all of my reviewers for their comments, encouragement, and valuable feedback. When planning this, I wondered how readers would react to a fanfic where the inevitable epic battle sequence is prevented at the eleventh hour and never actually takes place. _The Poison Crown_ is essentially an anti-war story, and was meant to be so from the very beginning. Thank you again for all of your support; it really means a lot to me._

_Now, some fun facts and behind-the-scenes bonus features:_

_1. You may have noticed that there is no one "main character" in this story; five characters (Jyss, Illirae, Ghalio, Ciprian, and Favilliel) all have five chapters told from their respective points-of-view! I really like the number five (FGC has fifty chapters). The "major changes" I mentioned while posting the story were one new chapter for each of the main characters. These were: "Attack" (7, Jyss), "The Lieutenant" (16, Ciprian), "Will You Join Us" (19, Favilliel), "Steel and Ivory" (22, Illirae), and "Deadly With a Knife" (25, Ghalio)._

_2. I mentioned before that the drunken scene with Ghalio and Ciprian was inspired by "Othello". The name "Ciprian" means "man of Cyprus", and – completely coincidentally – the main action of "Othello" takes place on the island of Cyprus._

_3. The title of this story was one of the first things I came up with. I knew the general plot (a mad king controlled by someone on the other side of a rebellion), and suddenly "The Poison Crown" popped into my head. It was only months later, when most of the story had been written, that I worked in the conspiracy theory that Ancelstierrans had poisoned Rothain's crown. The words didn't really mean anything when I first thought of them. It was more of an atmospheric title; what it sounds like, and its connotations, are more important than the meaning itself – as with the movie _Reservoir Dogs_ (which I love, by the way)._

_4. The chapters were initially structured so that two halves were told from different points of view. For example, the first chapter was going to be Jyss getting her new post, and then Ghalio not being promoted. These chapter halves expanded until I finally split them. The inclusion of flashback scenes was a very late addition, used to round off the chapters and add more length and complexity. Because this story starts _in medias res_, I liked the opportunity to explore the past._

_5. Some early ideas: Originally the rebels were stationed by the Red Lake and that somehow interfered with the Clayr's Sight (as with Orannis). I brought the rebels closer and decided to cut the Clayr off completely, rather than having to deal with that whole Sight-being-blocked issue. For a long time Ciprian was going to be older than Favilliel, until I realized they were both acting like Favilliel was the older one. There was some juggling of names: the prisoner Kelsa was originally Thess, and the Clayr ambassador Thess was originally Marin, and the Ranger Marin did not exist (because at that time I hadn't realized yet that Illirae was gay). Also, Thorael's name used to be Harshael – awful, I know. The idea of the archivists arose rather late; at first Kelsa was a woodsman's daughter. Also, in an early outline Ciprian was to have some sort of spiritual encounter in the wilderness with an animal (stag/wolf/snake, etc.) before he meets Madran and fights him. The second time he meets Madran, he is out in the woods (depressed, but not suicidal) looking for that animal. Then when he decides to go with Favilliel and Madran, he glimpses the animal again. I don't know what that was all about either. Betrys' sons were to have a larger role. I discarded a brief subplot where Vansen connects (romantically?) with a Healer after he returns to Belisaere without his hands. Anthone was to be featured in a chapter where Betrys orders the rebels troops to move out. He senses two powerful Charter mages (Favilliel and Madran, going to fetch Ciprian) nearby, considers capturing them, and decides to let them go without ever knowing who they are. I like the current scenario in "A Moment of Truth" better, when they confront each other. In fact, I like all of the changes I made. Can you imagine an Abhorsen called "Harshael"? Veeeeery subtle._

_I really liked my new system of writing most of the story before beginning to post it. If I write any multi-chapter fics in the future I'll use this system again. Unfortunately, that means there will be more time between finishing one long story and posting another. I have a few ideas for possible longer works, but in the meantime you'll see some shorter pieces from me._

_Thank you all again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story._


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